


A Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure

by RebelGeneralLeia



Series: A Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure [1]
Category: Princess Bride (1987), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - The Princess Bride, Attempted Murder, Bedtime Stories, Chicken Pox, Conspiracy, Crossover, Fake Character Death, Fencing, Implied Suicidal References, Irene is not Evil, M/M, Mary is not evil, Mild torture, Miracles, Nightmares, Reunions, Sick Character, Slight Non-Con Mention, Swordfighting, The Princess Bride - Freeform, Torture, True Love, Victor Trevor Reference, uncomfortable situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2018-11-13 11:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11184342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelGeneralLeia/pseuds/RebelGeneralLeia
Summary: It's a classic tale of adventure, miracles, sword fights and true love. Pirates, giants, princess, princesses... and all of it feels just a bit much for the sick mind of Rosie Watson to get her head around. At least, that's what she thought before Aunt Molly came up with a clever way to make the timeless story more accessible to the young girl. While the tale as it happened to Buttercup and Westley felt too farfetched for the girl, the daring adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are just the remix the story needs to pacify the sick little girl.





	1. Prologue: Chickenpox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that while Molly is technically basing her version of the original book; it will flip back and forth a bit. Drawing inspiration from both variations of the story.

 

**“When I was your age, television was called books. And this is a special book. It was the book my father used to read to me when I was sick and I used to read it to your father, and today, gonna read it to you.”**

_“Does it got any sports in it?”_

**“Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting,revenge giants, monsters, chases, escapes, True Love, miracles....”**

  
_“Doesn't sound too bad. I'll try and stay awake.”_

 

 _\- The Princess Bride_ , directed by Rob Reiner

 

 

* * *

 

Rosie Watson was miserable. Being sick for a day or two was one thing,  a week or more was just mean. She had only meant to be at Baker Street for a day, a day off from school spent at the flat starting off  normal enough before she began to feel unwell. By supper time she had a fever and a rash. She didn't need to wait for Sherlock to confirm what she had already suspected: Rosie had Chicken Pox. To make matters worse, was the fact she couldn't even lounge in her own bed. She was trapped at Baker Street, a statement she never thought she would think. Rosie loved being there, but she hated being there without her dad.

Her dad was always there to take care of her when she was ill, but Chickenpox was highly contagious and her dad had never had them before. Rosie had initially been very upset by this, before it was explained to her that getting Chickenpox as an adult was very different then getting them as a kid. The last thing she wanted was to make her dad sick, so she toughed it out. She had Sherlock for company, he had even given up his bedroom after that first night. She had spent most of it up, feeling nauseous and coughing in the spare room before Sherlock moved her downstairs to be easily accessible.

After two days, watching Netflix and finishing the book she had with her before becoming sick, Rosie was growing restless. Her dad called her when possible, on the phone several times and skyping when able. By the fourth day, not even Mrs Hudson or Sherlock could lift her spirits. That night, she heard her dad and Sherlock speak on the phone, her heart breaking as she heard how guilty her dad felt about being unable to be there for her. She didn't want to admit that she felt guilty for being sick, guilty for making her dad sad, so when she cried herself to sleep that night she had told Sherlock it was from her stomach but she wasn't sure he believed her.

Perhaps, that was why when the next day he got a call from Lestrade about a case, Sherlock called in reinforcements. Around 11am, there was a knock on the front door and a couple minutes later, Rosie was greeted with a sympathetic smile from her Godmum. “Aunt Molly, is it safe? I'm contagious.” She heard herself exclaiming, before mentally scolding herself for scaring away for first new face she had seen in days.

Aunt Molly just chuckled. “I heard, lucky for you I had the Chickenpox myself when I eight. I missed Chrissy Pyle’s birthday party too. I was devastated. Felt like the end of the world.” She took at seat at the foot of her bed, looking a slight bit discomforted by being in Sherlock’s room. Understandable as is wasn't a room people saw often. Rosie shifted, sitting up a bit as Aunt Molly placed a hand to her forehead, “Still a bit feverish I see.”

“I hate this. I’m itchy, I feel awful and I miss my da’.” Rosie pouted, puckering her lip out to prove a point.

“I know, he misses you too. He looked so mopey yesterday. You're starting to scab over, you probably will be good in a few days. So that's good…” She paused, tucking a blonde strand behind her Goddaughter’s ear. “but that doesn't help you with today, does it? I am not needed at work, so I can keep you company all day, how does that sound?”

Rosie gave her a small smile, collapsing back onto the mountain of pillows. “It sounds nice, thank you.”

Molly smiled, reaching into her bag. “You’ll probably need your calamine lotion touched up in a bit, but for now I brought you something.” In her hands, she withdrew a well worn copy of a book. “Sherlock tells me that your headache has stopped you from reading but I don't mind reading to you.”

The book looked old, a couple decades at best, but the title wasn't entirely foreign to her. “ _The Princess Bride_ … isn't that a movie? I think my dad has that.” She mused.

“That doesn't surprise me, have you watched it before?”

Rosie shook her head. “He tried once, but I fell asleep.” She admitted, a bit sheepishly. “I don't know Aunt Molly, It might be a bit much to take in right now. That looks like a lot of pages.” Molly looked a tad disappointed, and Rosie realised how ungrateful she sounded. “What I mean is, thank you.”

Molly gave her a small smile and began to read.

 

* * *

  

“Rosie? Sweetie?” Molly shook her shoulder gently as Rosie groaned softly. “Come on hun, you need to take your medicine now.”

Rosie  groggily opened her eyes, stretching slightly as she adjusted to the light. “Aunt Molly? Wh- you were reading…”

Molly chuckled, sitting next to her with a tablet and glass of water. “You fell asleep, it's alright though. You're sick.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologise dear, it's fine. Now sit up and take this.”

She pulled herself up, taking the glass from her godmother sheepishly. “I didn't mean to. If you want, you can read again…”

Molly took a breath, “I don't know hun, I don't want to take away from your rest.”

“I'm awake. Promise… its just…” Rosie sighed, swallowing the tablet and chasing it down with a gulp of water as Molly tilt her head curiously.

“Just what dear?” She asked, taking the glass from Rosie and setting it on the nightstand.

“I like the idea of it, I remember that from the movie but… the names? They're so silly and the way the storyteller talks--- is too weird.”

Molly considered this, she couldn't say she didn't disagree. She had been young when she first read the story, never considered it this way. Nostalgia blindness attributing to this. “So what you're saying that you like the story, but you need it tweaked.” She asked, an idea brewing in her head. Molly shifted further onto the foot of the bed, tucking her feet under. “Alright, lucky for you I know this story backwards and forwards, I can retell it to you.”

“Really?!” Rosie asked, a bit brighter at the idea,

“Yes… now settle down. It's time for you to relax.” Molly began, smoothing the blankets around Rosie before putting on her storytelling voice, calming and clear. “This is a tale of Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, True Love, miracles....”

 


	2. Chapter Two: As You Wish

**“...Westley, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.” And with that, she dared the bravest thing she had ever done: she looked into his eyes.**

_He closed the door in her face._

_Without a word._

_Without a word._

 

 

 __\- The Princess Bride,_ _ by William Goldman; **Part One: The Bride**

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was raised on an estate that was surrounded by acres of farmland in the country of Florin. His favourite past times were his studies, in which he partook in many and mostly of his own direction, and poking at the farm boy who served his family to go along with whatever he did. His name was John Watson, but Sherlock never called him that.

Sherlock was the second born in his family, so he himself held very little outside of his family's name and reputation. His mother, somewhere in her lineage, had noble blood. While the bloodline had diluted generations ago, the title remained. Passed down to their firstborns, as titles do. The exact stature of his family was the subject of some question in their village. They were important enough to visit court on occasion, but not enough to have actual authority outside of their lands. It was all rather confusing and best not to be thought about for too long. The important part was their home, Musgrave Hall that provided much of the employment in their village. Everything else was to debate in taverns and classrooms in the village. 

None of this mattered much to Sherlock, however, as the life of a nobleman’s son did not hold much interest for him. He was a man of science, first and foremost. When he wasn't studying the latest research that tickled into the bookshops of their village, he was conducting his own. His experiments were to the chagrin of his mother, Lady Holmes who fretted about the situations her youngest son ended up in. A sentiment shared by the farm boy.

Sherlock often made quite a show of ordering him about, getting him to do the strangest tasks for him as he did observed. Usually with little explanation before a luminous look filled his eyes as something John couldn't see clicked. It also never seemed to matter what tasks John was doing, he could be mucking stalls or polishing saddles, and Sherlock would flounce in as if unaware he had a job outside of serving him.

At first, it infuriated the farm hand. The man didn't even bother to get his name before ordering him about. Yet, it wasn't until John pieced together what he was doing WHEN ordering him around that he realised something. Sherlock Holmes was arrogant, and demanding as he was posh --- but first and foremost, he was brilliant. Not just smart, but possibly in possession of the greatest mind in the world.

He wasn't sure when helping Sherlock stopped being a bother, an eye to watch over their son became an acceptable substitute for the traditional work of a farm hand in the eyes of the Holmes’. When Sherlock couldn't be found, it became habit for them to check where John worked. The real change came when he started to sit in silence as John worked, lost in his thoughts but just near friendly company. It was apparent that Sherlock Holmes was not the type to have had many friends or acquaintances; if it wasn't for his station, John might have dared to guess that he was the first.

Then again, what would a nobleman’s son need a farm boy for in terms of friendship?

* * *

Things really began to change one winter when John Watson had spotted the young man on the roof of the barn. He had only noticed as he had nearly been a casualty, only missing being impaled by an icicle launched from his grip, aiming for a row of gourds he had nicked from the stores.

“Oi! Watch it!” he had exclaimed, prompting the young man to look down.

“Oh!” he had called back, unaware of his presence. “Apologies farm boy, but I recommend staying clear of the South entrance for a while.”

John drew himself up, the refusal of using his name never being missed by him and unsure how to take it as a subordinate. “Just what do you think you are doing this time sir?” 

“An experiment.”

“Is it on freezing to death? Because that's what will happen if you don't come down. If you don't break your neck slipping off.”

“Of course not,” he had retorted indignantly. “I am testing to see the speed, weight and size required to pierce through the human Skull from this distance and if it's guaranteed to be fatal in every account.”

John looked at his feet, several gourds had already fallen victim to Holmes’ tests. He tried not to think about how he had almost been one of them. “Well, it looks to me like you have enough to go on. Now get down or I'm going to come up and drag you down.”

Sherlock watched him daringly, eyes narrowing to call his bluff. “No you won't, you’d never dare.”

* * *

 

An hour and a half later, Sherlock frowned bitterly as the farm boy patched him up. “This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been so impertinent!”

John shook his head, going through his cupboard for clean linens. “No, it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't fought me on the ladder like I warned. That gash isn't pleasant but it's essentially harmless, but you risk concussion. Stop fussing now, and let me clean that up.”

“I still say I could have made it to the house…”

“And I say, that you are an idiot… and you're welcome, by the way. I just saved your life!”

“After you endangered it…”

John frowned, forgetting his place momentarily as he stormed over to the young man that had taken over his shabby little bed. He took Sherlock's wrist unexpectedly, that even he looked surprised (a look he was not accustomed to seeing on his superior's’ face) and held his own fingers to his face. “Do you see that, Sherlock? That is the early signs of frostbite. If I hadn't nearly been impaled by you and dragged you down, yes you might not have a concussion but you would have frozen to death instead! Now shut up and let me put this damn cloth on your head to prevent any swelling.”

Sherlock was momentarily stunned into silence, never before having experienced someone caring so passionately about his well-being (even if there was some edge to the farm boy’s words). He didn't move or talk as John placed a cool cloth on his brow or bandaged his cut. Nor did he comment when John realised he hadn't immediately let go of his wrist. He wasn't sure how long had passed before he finally spoke, side effect of the concussion he seemed to be nursing. “...you called me by my given name.”

John, who had by this point been resting in his tiny chair by the fire, looked up. Confused before realising what Sherlock referred to before looking slightly grim. “Oh… err, my apologies sir. I forgot myself. It won't happen again.”

Sherlock lifted a hand to silence him, “No, it's fine. I don't mind. It's all fine, farm boy.”

John let out an amused snort in spite of himself, for the first time hearing it as a nickname and not a means to degrade him. “You sure?”

“Of course, I mean it would probably be best to avoid addressing me as such in front of my parents or other staff but…” Sherlock took a breath, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as headache began to stir. “...I really don't mind. You are my friend after all.”

“Alright then... _Sherlock_?. That's… okay. Good.”

“Good.”

Moments passed between them in silence once more, John watched as Sherlock's eyes drifted shut before getting up to replace the cool cloth. As he gently laid the new one to his brow, he heard a deep whisper tell him,: “Thank you,” as cool slender fingers pressed against his wrist

John couldn't recall Sherlock ever saying those words before, let alone touching him, he faltered only for a moment before answering, “You're welcome, just never almost freeze to death or fall off a ladder in winter again, got it?”

 "As you wish.”

* * *

After that, those three little words quickly became some of the ones John heard most regularly. _As you wish_ , in response to being told to go eat. _As you wish_ , when reminded to use precaution while doing his various experiments. _As you wish,_ when John would make requests in ways to improve and repair things as the summer weather allowed.

“Well, have a good night then Sherlock, try to get some sleep.”

 “As you wish.”

 “Sherlock, I really need to finish mucking the stalls before sundown, can we hurry up here?”

 “As you wish.”

 “Sherlock? Be careful with that.”

 “...As you wish.”

 The repetition did not go unnoticed. At first, John had put it as just Sherlock’s posh speech; but the more he thought about it John could not remember him ever using it as much before (if at all). It felt like more than just a simple compliance, as if it was another connection that John didn't seem to make but Sherlock has already figured out. Yet normally, the man couldn't wait to show off and tell John of all the things he missed --- this time, Sherlock was seemingly waiting for John to figure it out on his own.

“Farm boy, bring me that riding crop. I need to see how fast and intense the bruises form on these melons”

“You know, one day you have to stop making produce your test dummies.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“Ha ha, no. Just be careful where you whip that thing, I am working in here still.”

“Hmm, as you wish farm boy.”

“You say that a lot, did you know?”

Sherlock paused, reaching for the crop that John was holding out for him as if he had been caught doing something. _But what?_ “Do I?”

“Yeah, you do. Habit?” John kept his tone casual.

Sherlock remained rigid. “It's becoming one, I suppose.”

“Just something I noticed. I suppose you don't even realize you are saying it half the time.”

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead he just turned back to his melons, motioning for John to stand back as he began to beat the skin of the fruit.

 _So it was nothing then_ , John mused as he went back to polishing the horse's saddles. _But then why does the air feel tense?_ He tried hard to focus on his work, but the involuntary grunts Sherlock made as he whipped the riding crop against his inanimate victim kept drawing his attention. The nobleman had discarded of his jacket, his long angular frame struck out through the clothes that no matter how tailored always seemed too big for him. The sunlight that shone through the work shed, highlighted the pale and almost marble like quality of his skin. His hair, wild in dark curls on his scalp that bounced in every move he made.

“Sherlock…” he whispered without meaning to. Hoping his voice had been overshadowed by his experiment.

The man paused, angled his head toward John so that he could properly see his eyes. Those damn eyes that seemed to shift colours between blue, green and gold. His face, sharp and long, with cheekbones that were defined and almost feminine in shape.  It was in that moment John realised how beautiful he was. Lord, was he beautiful. He shouldn't be, but somehow he defied his features and was so anyway. It was almost too much to comprehend, John felt his stomach twist at the thought. It was as if he were a mere mortal witnessing a god.  _You sound ridiculous, Watson._

“Farm boy?”

“Hmm? It's nothing. Ignore me.” John muttered, quickly busying himself with the saddles. Rubbing the polishing brush a bit too roughly as Sherlock set the crop down and walked over to him. His eyes curiously downcast towards him.

“I think I am done for now… going to go clean up for dinner now.” he spoke carefully, reaching past him to pick his jacket up where it lay.

“Right. Good. Do actually eat something then? Don't just sit there with your collar up and your damn cheekbones trying to look the part of grandeur.” John  quipped before he could stop himself. Suddenly, discussing his appearance felt very... _intimate_.

Sherlock frowned slightly, pulling his jacket back on, smoothing it out before fidgeting with the buttons. “I don't do that.”

“Yes you do.”

“Fine, as you wish.”

 _There it was again_. Both of them felt the air shift again, for a moment they did nothing but look at one another. Really look at one another and it made John’s face feel warm; prompting him to break his gaze so it wouldn't draw too much attention. He felt Sherlock walk past him, hearing him pause at the door. “I mean it every time, never doubt that .”

John’s face scrunched in confusion at the statement, turning to question him before see the strange look on his face. It was uncharacteristically unguarded and it was almost frightening to witness. John didn't even know what to think before he felt the realisation dawn on him. _As you wish_ . _More than just a simple compliance_ . _Waiting for John to figure it out._

 

Oh.

 

OH.

 

Sherlock Holmes wasn't complying with his subordinates’ request; he was saying _I love you_.

* * *

The sun had long set by the time John could settle into his bed, his own little house on the edge of the grounds. More of a glorified shed, but it was serviceable. The moment he had tried, John could only think of how Sherlock had been lying down right there when he first told him so. It felt intoxicating and intimate to even touch the spot let alone try to sleep on it. He pushed himself against the wall, back pressed up as his eyes watched the sliver of bed that his lord’s son had lain. It was against proprietary; Sherlock was no duke or count but he was still noble by birth. John came from nothing. He worked for him; he farmed their land, tended their crops, did odd jobs. Occasionally, he would make sure that Sherlock didn't get himself killed. Except that wasn't true, more often than naught, he was spending his time doing the latter. John had even caught himself shirking duties to find reasons to mind the young lord. Even earned them both a telling off from the Missus a couple times for doing so. Even so, John couldn't pin all their interactions on Sherlock when he was just as guilty nowadays.

John remembered the night Sherlock fell off the barn roof, how he had panicked when his friend didn't respond right away. How firm he had been to make sure he got better. He could still feel how Sherlock's pulse felt in his fingertips from when he gripped his wrist. He thought of how he looked earlier, how his stomach clenched when he thought him as beautiful. He thought back to the man he first met, placing him side by side in his mind with the man who loved him. It was near impossible to believe it was the same man. Yet it was. Sherlock Holmes loved him and had been telling him every day for ages and John had only just clued in now.

What now?

Did John love him too? He certainly cared for him. They were friends, even if the extent of their closeness was secretive for his mother's sake. John had already admitted to finding him attractive, but who wouldn't? Did John love him? He imagined living a world without him. A life without that devilish grin and grinding internal gears. A day where he didn't hear those three little words fall from cupid's bow lips. A world where Sherlock Holmes was gone, he thought of it and John couldn't breathe. His hand had instinctively reached for the cool space of bed where Sherlock had once been, as if feeling him through the memory.

John was in love. That was a terrifying thought but God was it also exhilarating to admit to himself.   _John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes and nothing would make him wait another moment before he told him_ , he thought to himself , pulling on his jacket on and beginning to run towards the main house.

* * *

 

It was punishable for staff to wander the main house after everyone returned. John knew he could be in huge trouble for being here but he had to see him. It just couldn't wait a moment longer. Sherlock had pointed his room out to John once before, it only took a few minutes to find it before knocking on the door.

When Sherlock opened it, he was still in his dinner dress, he looked surprised to see him but not displeased by him. “Farm boy? What are you doing, come in here.” he replied, taking his wrist in his long slender fingers and dragging him into his room. He shut the door carefully, listening at it should someone have heard the noise before turning back to John. “I trust you have a good reason for risking your Job?”.

“It couldn't wait. It just couldn't wait till morning.” John panted, winded from the run still. “Sherlock I---” Now that he was in front of the man, John felt his certainty start to wain. What if he was wrong? _God_ , John loved him. He couldn't afford to be wrong about this. “Earlier today, I realised something and it's completely shaken my entire life. I mean it because, it's not what I ever expected. Really, Sherlock, it's almost terrifying in the same way that it was life affirming. I finally understand, at least… god, Sherlock I think I understand. Please, I hope to God I am not wrong...”

Sherlock's eyes were unwavering, processing every word John spoke. Each honest confession without actually saying it - Sherlock had to know what he meant, didn't it? Except now,  he looked almost hurt in away, and John panicked slightly. Had he waited to long? Was he misreading the signs?

John cleared his throat. “...and of course, this is absolutely ridiculous of me. I am breaking every convention and rule by being here and suddenly I feel quite foolish and… sorry. I just.  This is a mistake, my deepest… err… just forget I came here… good evening and forgive the intrusion.” Mortified, he was absolutely mortified as Sherlock stood there looking shocked, confused and disappointed. _Disappointed_. It was as if John had betrayed him somehow. John couldn't look at him any longer without feeling shame and utter humiliation. He quickly turned toward the door and ran out as fast as he could. Caring very little if anyone heard him; his days working here were likely numbered now anyway.

* * *

He wasn't sure how he got any sleep that night, but he knew that he must have if he was awoken at dawn by the sound of banging on his front door. He almost dismissed it to be wind, before he heard that velvety baritone call out in urgency. “Farm boy! Farm boy open up!” Was that use of a nickname or cold detachment? John couldn't tell. Either way, he pulled himself from his bed and braced himself for whatever was waiting for him on the other side of that door. Polite refusal, instant dismissal? He was ready. He had to be.

But he wasn't ready for the sight of Sherlock Holmes dressed to leave, luggage at his feet. John blinked in confusion, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as the man gave him a sad smile, the kind that tried it's best not to look sad but could still be spotted in their eyes.

“May I come in?”

John nodded and held the door open for him. Sherlock smirked a bit as he looked about, pointing towards the dilapidated bookshelf in the corner. “That was broken last time too.” he mused. “Funny, you spend all your days working and fixing things but you hardly touch your own belongings.”

“Well, when you work all day the last thing you want to do is come home and work all night as well.” John countered, sleep still cracking in his throat.

Were they really going to exchange pleasantries as if nothing was wrong? The air was tense around them, it was unmissable. Sherlock wasn't one to beat about the bush on things, yet his fingers seemed restless and anxious by the way he was fiddling with them. “I’m leaving today to port, and in a few days I will be boarding a ship crossing the sea.”

Where had that come from? Why was he just telling him this now? “I don't understand, sir?”

Sherlock bit down on his lips at the use of formal address, “You don’t call me that.”

“Well, perhaps I should before it leads to further impertinent actions on my part.” John tried to keep his voice level, but Sherlock had that look in his eye again. The one from last night and he felt his humiliation all over again.

“You _don’t_ call me that.”

“Fine, if that's what you wish but it hardly seems to matter if you’ve just come to say goodbye.”

Sherlock didn't speak immediately, but he took a step towards John so that he could now better smell the expensive soaps used the in Main House, the laundered linen of his clothes and a musk that could only be described as Sherlock. It was intoxicating and it was cruel. “I was informed yesterday that I was to go forth on this trip. My Uncle Ruddy, works in the Port Town and can put me on a ship for me to seek my fortune. My mother intended for me to stay the summer, but after your nocturnal visit I realised I couldn't wait that long.”

Those words stung, and perhaps Sherlock saw the pain in John's face for he immediately reached out as John took a step back. Capturing his wrist in his hand, two fingers pressed along the pulse point of his quickening heart. “No, no, let me finish…” Sherlock pleaded, a tone of desperation he had never once heard before in his voice. Gone was the demanding orders for the Farm Boy, he was asking John for something now. “...you ran away before you could say it but I knew what you were saying.  Of course I did Farm boy, I have imagined you figuring it out and coming after me so many times. It's only cruel irony that you came to the realisation when you did.”

His breathing was hitched, John couldn't find the words to express what he was feeling. Without saying the words, Sherlock was telling him what John had correctly figured out. Sherlock Holmes _loved_ him and he knew now that John _loved_ him back --- but then why was he leaving? “I don't understand, if you… if you have _wanted_ this and I want this, why do you _have_ to leave immediately? I don't get that.”

It was Sherlock's turn to look quizzically at John. “What do you mean? Didn't you hear me? I have to go make a fortune for myself. When you came to me last night, that fortune I needed to make doubled. Lest you wished to spend our lives in this shabby hut with us both tending my parents grounds?”

John blinked, starting to understand but desperately needed things to be said more clearly. To use the words they were avoiding. “You mean to say, that you are going to…”

“...build our life together. Of course. Isn't that obvious? The sooner I leave, the sooner I can earn a modest livelihood and return to you.” Sherlock finished, a bit teasingly at having to spell it out for him. “John Watson, I plan to never have to leave you again once I come back, I plan to stay by your side until we both die.  I want these things with you and I hope you’ll find them agreeable terms to live by?”

“You called me John.”

“Well, it'd be foolish of me to refer to my fiancé as Farm Boy for the rest of my life, wouldn't it?”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I'm asking you to accept.”

“Only if you stop being so close and just kiss me already.”

“As you wish.”

Those cupid bow lips were softer than John had thought possible. His own rougher chapped lips felt unworthy to touch ones so plush, yet they welcomed him without hesi-

* * *

“Mollllllyyyyy” Rosie groaned, dramatically flopping against the pillows, pulling a nearby one over her face to burrow herself in it.

Molly blinked, looking up from the text that was serving more as a rough guide than anything, “What is it?”

“ _Dewey haffter reab duhgissing perts_ ” She answered, words muffled by the pillow.

Molly reached over, pulling the cushion off her face with a laugh. “What was that?”

Rosie flushed pink, awkwardly sweeping her tongue across her lip before repeating. “Do we _have_ to read the kissing parts?”

“Since when were you so squeamish about kissing?” She answered, arched eyebrow as he remembered only weeks ago when Rosie was playing _Sleeping Beauty_ ; a game in which she would collapse to the floor at random and only awake until someone gave her a kiss on the cheek or forehead.

“It's different, that's my dad and Sherlock! It's embarrassing!” Rosie lamented

“Why?”

“Because he's a DAD!” Rosie exclaimed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He's not suppose to do that!”

Molly laughed, a bit relieved if being spared the _after school special_ moment. “Well why not? Don't you want your dad to be happy and have love?”

The young girl looked as if she hadn't considered this, certainly she did not want her dad to be unhappy. There was enough of that with her being sick already. Rosie thought for a second before replying. “Well… I guess it's okay…. But I still don't want to see the mushy stuff.” She said with a cheeky grimace.

Molly understood her meaning, remember how she too had also exclaimed in horror every time her parents had been ‘mushy’ too. “Alright. You're sick, so I’ll humour you.”

 

* * *

When their lips finally parted, John felt breathless, clutching tightly to the young man’s forearms as his only steadying tool. He let out a breathless laugh as he saw how red Sherlock's cheeks had become. In that moment, everything felt _right_. The two men just stood there, holding each other. Foreheads pressed together, both trying very hard not to think of how this was a goodbye.  Ignoring that just outside that door was Sherlock's bags to leave.

“I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.” Sherlock promised. “Don't ever doubt that. I’ll come back for you.”

John sniffed, small smile on his lips as he thought to that day. How far away it seemed right now, but looking around his little hut, he knew that Sherlock was right. “I’ll miss you.”

“I will miss you too.” Sherlock pulled away, withdrawing from his fiancé’s embrace. Reaching to his lapel, Sherlock unpinned a small brooch, blue gemstone that reminded him of the ocean. “I don't have a ring, but I hoped this would serve as an acceptable substitute. The colour made me think of you.”

John felt Sherlock’s fingers pull on his shirt, threading the pin in and out of the fabric and clasping it. John instinctively placed a hand over top of it, feeling the cool metal over his heart. “It's perfect. Won't get grubby while I work.” The smile that formed on Sherlock's face, reaching his eyes in a way he hadn't seen before, just about did him in. “God, Sherlock I lo-”

“Don't.”

John blinked, Sherlock's smile vanishing slightly **.** “Don't what?”

“Please, don't say it.” Sherlock's voice almost pleading.

“But Sherlock, I-”

“John please, don't say it.”

“But why not?! Sherlock you just asked me to marry you?! You just made a big speech about us living a life together!” John exclaimed, genuinely hurt and slightly confused by this sudden declaration.

“John, don't think I don't want to hear it or to say it. But you need to understand that it's taking every bit of my strength to be able to leave today - I fear if we start saying it, it will never stop and I won't go.” he explained, unable to meet John’s eye as he did so. Controlling his emotions in a way that still showed they were there without giving way to them. “And I have to go… John you deserve the best I can give you. Please, give me something to look forward to when I return”

John wasn't certain if he felt he should wait, not when he didn't know how long Sherlock would be gone for, but the desperation in his finacé’s voice convinced him not to push the matter. “But you do?”

“Completely and truly.”

“And you know I do?”

“It's the knowledge that gives me the strength to go.”

The couple shared another embrace, one that lasted until they both lost track of how long they had been there. When it was time to part, Sherlock held his wrists in his hands. Feeling John’s heartbeat, steadying his own rate down till they were in sync.

“I fear I'll never see you again.” John admitted, standing in the doorway of his small hut.  
  
“Of course you will.”  
  
“And if something happens to you?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t smile, but his eyes bore into his as if making a vow. “Hear this now: I will always come for you.

“How can you be so sure? People sail off and never return every day”  
  
“Because _this_ ,” his hand pressed against his brooch, covering it and his heart as he did, “doesn’t happen every day.” Another shared kiss, and the promise of a tomorrow they would share, Sherlock left Musgrave Hall and John was left thinking how he should have said it anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be parts of the story that switch back to the Rosie and Molly plot, there is a funny little side story plotted for the two at Baker Street. However, only the Prologue and Epilogue will be entirely based on those subplots.


	3. Chapter Two: Prince James' Court

 

**“Your father has had his annual physical,” the Count said. “I have the report.”**

_“And?”_

**“Your father is dying.”**

_“Drat!” said the Prince. “That means I shall have to get married.”_

 

 

****The Princess Bride** , by William Golding; _Part Two: The Groom_ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Florin was 494 years old, King James Sholto the First first began to show signs of failing health. His wife, Queen Janine of second marriage, fired the former physician. A _Miracle Man_ with an odd name who had serviced the royal family since his first bit of Magic, taking over for his father who had serviced the royal family years before. Yet, it was at her Stepson’s insistence that they stop relying on magic men and turn an eye more to the developing sciences that seemed to be growing in popularity. For the king's son, Prince James Moriarty the Second (named for his deceased mother), had no desire to be king. He knew one day he would have to and settle into the boring and nauseating job of dealing with people and their problems. Everyone always seemed to have a problem that they were just too stupid to figure out. Prince James felt differently than his father King James  about such matters. He always had.

As a boy, King James had serviced in his father’s, King Victor, army in the great war against Florin’s enemy across the channel, Guilder. The war between the two kingdoms had a long history, and it went through many cool periods. Nobody could truly remember the cause of it anymore, historians long debated the source of conflict and could never truly come to a consensus. The most everyone knew was that every hundred years or so, something would spark trouble and the neighboring countries would war until someone got bored and stopped. During King James’ time in battle, he had suffered great loss with his comrades and when he took the throne he ushered in the current Era of tolerating peace between them. He saw many families torn apart and wanted to use his power to help not harm.

Prince James, on the other hand, had been born with a defiant streak. He was born too clever for his own good, so clever that he often resulted in boredom that took on nasty moods. It wasn't until he was 14 years old, under the tutelage of a friend of his father's, Count Charles Augustus Magnussen that he found that conflict was a great stimulant for boredom. The Count trained him in hunting, combat and when he was older, he showed the Prince his experiments. The Count considered himself a scientist of sorts, his topic of study being pain and death. Morbid perhaps, but someone needed to do it and he held the stomach for it. Prince James loved watching his tests, financing their expansion. Eventually, by his 25th year, Prince James and Count Charles had constructed their own lab of sorts. Half Menagerie, half laboratory that they nicknamed in good humour _The Zoo of Death_.

Prince James would much rather have spent his time assisting the Count, and coming up with his own little tests. Miracles mattered little in the world of cold hard science, miracles didn't save the exotic creatures and prisoners from dying from his hand in their experiments. Miracles would not keep his father alive. Prince James wasn't emotionally driven to keep his father's health, and as a member of the royal family nobody ever questioned when he held a stiff upper lip on the subject. The longer it took for James to take the throne, the happier he was.

* * *

In Florin’s 496th year, Prince James had started to spend half of his days doing his princely duties and the other half (as well as many nights) tending to his own interests. Fortunately, as this was a time in which Hunting was an acceptable means of sport without all the questionable morality that surrounds it today. So were many of the sports that members of the Royal Guard and visiting dignitaries liked to partake in, such as dueling, jousting and other matters of violent sport. Prince James never liked to dirty his hands and partake directly, when avoidable, but he couldn’t deny a slight thrill that came from entering the ring himself at times. No, for the Prince, these were spectator sports that he liked to direct. Guide the pawns into their place and watch the victory.

Perhaps it was this that made the young Prince less personable than his father; not that it mattered much as a Prince. His father was to deal with people while he made sure he lived long enough to sire a son either with a wife or with a nurse, should he select a consort over a queen.  People bored Prince James though, he even grew weary of Count Charles after a while, and that was the man whom he trusted the most. The gravity of this situation, however, didn’t fully hit the Prince until the day he was watching an executioner ward off group of unarmed prisoners in one of the pits in the Zoo.

He watched keenly, trying to logic whom would be victorious, skill or swarm. The Prince hardly noticed that Count Charles had entered the court until he spoke, splitting his focus. “Your highness, may I have a word?” the Count spoke, carefully as he knew how the Prince hated to be disturbed as they worked.

Prince James frowned, hardly turning to glance at him, and instead leaning forward to watch as the executioner was swarmed and pinned, yet still kept swinging. “Can it wait? I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“How long?”

There was a shout, the executioner, despite being armed and armoured fell into a lifeless lump as the prisoners clamoured off his body, looking at each other gravely. Prince James held a satisfied smirk as he looked up to the Count standing over him. “What is it then?”

“Sir, your father saw the physician again today.” Count Charles explained, a letter in his gloved hand as he offered it to the Prince. “I have the results right here.”

Prince James was uninterested in the document, “And?” he demanded, his tone a touch testy as it was no secret that he did not like things being drawn out needlessly. For effect, for timing, that was different; but it was clear to him that his friend was stalling.

“He’s dying, your highness. A few months at worst,  a couple more years at best.”

The Prince looked cold, shaking his head at the news. “Damn. The old man had one use and he cannot even provide that. You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Sir?”

“It means that I am to be King, and that I must marry. Oh how dreadfully boring. Dull. Dull. Dull. It’s loathsome, Charles. It really is.” Prince James looked back into the pit. “I am afraid that I have some bad news for you lot, I know you were all promised freedom should you win but I am just feeling rather changeable. There is one weapon in the pit, and that is how many tickets out there are left. Happy hunting.” His voice echoed as he leaned back in his seat in the spectator’s window. He watched as the men looked at each other in horror, uncertain of what to do. _But they’ll fight each other eventually, they always do_ , the Prince thought to himself.

If he was to have a very bad day, then he shouldn’t have to suffer alone.

 

* * *

 

In the year of 498, Prince James had begun overseeing the Royal Guard. It was rather dull work, and he typically just watched their training for long stretches of time and let the Captains do whatever it was that Royal Captains did. It really didn’t interest him. He and Count Charles would make the decisions that needed to be made, while working on their own studies and experiments in the background. All of this would be frequently interrupted as, in his Father’s stead, Prince James would be assisting Queen Janine in the running of the kingdom. There was a coronation to be prepared for, a wedding to arrange and the quickly approaching 500th anniversary of Florin. Work was great and the Prince was stretched thin, which lead most of his duties with the Guard fell into the hands of the Count.

The Count, had other worries on his mind, worries concerning the Prince. Over the last three years, several suitors had been brought to the castle, all of which had been abysmal disasters. Prince James didn’t want someone he’d have to babysit like the Prince of Peruca. Nor did he have the patience to deal with the clingy nature of the Princess of Darconia. The greatest failure had been the most recent one, The Princess from Guilder. It wasn’t unheard of for the two neighbouring Kingdoms to try to acquire peace by marrying one of their children off to another, they’d get a generation or two of tolerance before war broke out again. Prince James and Princess Sarah ( or Sally, as she prefered ) had taken immediate disliking to one another and the peaceful dinner turned into a near declaration of war that was giving Prince James bad press in his Kingdom.

The Prince was intelligent. He was cunning and clever. He could be charming, but the people didn’t love him like they loved his father. This would be a problem should those promises of war be made good. Nobody would want to follow him into battle.

The Count was thinking of this as he watched one of the King’s personal regiments train. Their captain, a sandy haired man who, according to his file, had enlisted three years ago and quickly rose through the ranks. He came from nothing, there was little to know about him. He seemed to be native to the village of Musgrave; having worked at the hall which meant he was already familiar with the lives of nobility before coming to the castle. He owned nothing, outside of a pin he wore under his armour. A gift, it seemed, from the family before he left.

Moreover, people liked him. He could command, he understood battle. Yet, he was approachable. A man of the people. Count Charles began watching him intently, for about three weeks he watched him on duty and off. The situation was growing worse and worse with the Prince, as he overheard the Captain himself tell a trooper off fiercely for disrespecting their future sovereign. Loyal, he was, too it seemed.  This was when an idea began to brew in the Count’s head.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand what was so urgent, Count.” Prince James moaned as he was lead from the Court all the way to his Study by Count Charles.

The Count didn’t say a word as he took him out onto the balcony, below they could see the guards training and in the mix of it, he could see the Captain standing there. Sandy blond hair giving him a bit of a glow as the sun reflected on it. Poetic in a way the Prince wouldn’t care about; but worth noting to his mind. “Your Highness, I believe I have solved our problems with your betrothed.”

“Do you now, and what is your idea?”

The Count pointed towards the Captain and Prince James balked.  “Charles, you cannot be serious.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a nothing.”

“You’re right, but that’s exactly why it's perfect.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Sir, we both know that you are not favourable in your kingdom. The problem is that one day you are going to need that favour badly.” Count Charles explained. “This is a man not only of respect, but people like him. He is approachable. I even heard him defend your honour a few days ago.”

“Really?” The Prince seemed to take this into consideration. “Let’s go down to the ground, get a closer look.”

Count Charles followed Prince James into the training yard, watching from the sidelines as the men ran their drills. Prince James watched the Captain closely, “He’s certainly a bit dishy, isn’t he? In that rugged storybook hero kind of way.” he mused sardonically. Count Charles snickered as the Prince continued. “I see the idea, a man of the people. A People’s Prince. Someone more approachable than myself, perhaps someone who would even be willing to handle the daily slog of my father’s citizens. Yet, I wonder why you chose this man in particular, Count. Tell me, what do you know of him.”

“His name is John Hamish Watson; he is a captain under your father’s personal guard. So already, you have a sympathetic connection with the beloved king, _long may he reign_. He came to us from Musgrave where he served as a farmhand for Lord Holmes’ hall.” The Count began to list off. “He has been described as having high moral character, unwavering loyalty, and trusted.”

Prince James had stopped listening before then, his mind caught on one particular detail the Count had mentioned. “He worked Musgrave Hall… curious. Tell me, when did he first come to us?”

“Three years ago.”

“Is that so?”

“Does that mean something to you?”

Prince James smirked. “Three years ago, I recall paying respects to the Lord of Musgrave Hall.”

“Your highness?”

“I think I am going to have a word with Captain Watson once he’s off duty, tell him to wait for me.”

 

* * *

 

Before Florin’s 495th year, John Watson had never once suffered heartbreak. He thought he had, as a youth. Days of flirting and dating before it ending as fleetingly as summer did. Yet, nothing from those youthful days compared to the daily reminder of true heart break. When he left Musgrave Hall, the Holmes family had been very generous. They supported him, thanked him for his work in both words and coin. He wasn’t certain if Sherlock had ever told them of their engagement; but he didn’t have to for them to know that he was the reason for his leave.

He didn’t run away immediately, that not only would have been a huge disrespect to the family he served but it also was physically impossible for him to do anything. He had been angry, hurt --- lost in a sea of confusion and mourning as he tried to understand how he could live in a world where Sherlock Holmes was dead.

No, not dead.

Murdered.

How many times had he read those words over, the report from Rudolph Holmes?

 

 

> _The Ship, The Viridian, was attacked during it’s voyage by the ship The Revenge; the known pirate ship of the Dread Pirate Roberts. The ship was unsalvageable, no survivors._

 

Sherlock had promised he would come back. In vain, John had waited and waited for some miracle. Months he waited before he was forced to face a vile truth. Miracles didn’t exist and Sherlock Holmes was dead.

 

* * *

 

Back in the year 498, Captain Watson discarded his helmet, tucking it under his arm in proper fashion and crossed the field to where Prince James stood. He couldn’t think as to what he had done to be summoned by the Crown Prince, but he still held his chin up and gave the man his dues as in greeting. “Good evening, your highness. I was informed you wanted a word?”

Prince James gave the Captain a charming smile. “At ease, Captain, you are not being scolded. However, I do wish to discuss a very important matter with you. Walk with me?”

“Of course, your highness.” Captain Watson replied with a nod, allowing the Prince to lead the way. They walked a bit aways, following the path from the Guardhouse to the Courtyard. The Captain watched as the Prince remained silent, wondering what on earth he could be of service to the Prince for. There was no battle, and as far as he knew there were no immediate dangers. Even if there were, why would he not go to his own guard first?

“Captain, I am your Prince and I would like you to marry me.”

Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “What?... I mean, Pardon, your highness?”

“I am your Prince and I would like you to marry me.”

“Ah… no. No, sorry. I am your humble servant and I must refuse.” This had to be a joke. The Prince poking fun.

“I am your Prince and you cannot refuse.”

“I am your loyal servant, and I already did.”

“Refusal means death.”

“I don’t believe you’ll kill me, your highness.”

“Why not?”

“Because you wouldn’t ask me to marry you just to kill me.”

At this the Prince smiled, laughing lightly at the comment. “Is that so?” he didn’t deny the Captain’s statement outright, but he stopped in his tracks. “I must admit, Captain I am very confused by your refusal. I mean, outside of the fact that we’ve never met before and I know hardly anything about you --- what is there to refuse?” There was a self-aware humour to his words, but a genuine interest in the answer. “Are you spoken for?”

The Captain hesitated, rubbing a hand over his heart. “...No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why do you hesitate to accept?” Prince James countered. “I am your Prince and I am not so bad, why would you rather death then becoming my consort?”

“Because your highness, I was always taught that marriage involves love and that is not an area I like treading. Especially, as you said, we hardly know one another.”

At this, the Prince smirked. “Love? John, may I call you John, Captain?” Captain Watson nodded. “John, I do not claim to be in love with you. To be honest, I hardly knew of you before today. Yet, in my world, marriage isn’t so flowery. I am going to be King someday soon John. I already don’t have nearly as much respect from the people as my father does. I need to marry, and if I am to do so it’s going to be for a purpose then why not someone who represents the people?”

John looked taken aback by this, he had never considered himself a man of the people. True, he had been well-liked enough in school and adulthood. He got on well with the people around him. He was given the rank of captain and people seemed to respect him enough… but Consort?

The Prince continued. “John, I need a Royal Consort who can help win the people over. I cannot lead them, if they don’t trust me.” Prince James screwed his face into one more open, playing to the soldier and hero he pegged was inside of John. “I cannot protect them, if they don’t trust me. So please, John, trust in me. Marry me. Or, if I am that unappealing to you, death is still an option.”

John hesitated. “Even if I don’t love you?”

“I wouldn’t want it, if I had it.”

“Then by all means, let us marry I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if it was clear or not, but King James the First is meant to be James Sholto whereas Prince James the Second is meant to be Moriarty.


	4. Chapter Three: The Odd Trio

**“A word?” The sicilian said, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face.**

_Buttercup halted. “Speak.”_

**“We are but poor circus performers,” the Sicilian explained. “It is dark and we are lost. We were told that there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.”**

_“You were misinformed,” Buttercup told him. “There is no one, not for many miles.”_

**“Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward her face.**

 

**_\- The Princess Bride_ , by William Goldman; **Part Five: The Announcement** **

* * *

 

John’s life had changed exponentially, in the span of five years he had gone from being a farm boy, to a man who loved and lost, to a solder, to a Captain of the Royal Guard, and now he was about to be introduced to the entire kingdom of Florin as the Prince Consort. It felt unreal, even as a butler (a personal butler, had Sherlock had a personal butler? How had he never asked him such a thing?) dressed him in finery for the ceremony. The look they were going for was regal, yet still military. Highlighting that he fought for the people, the people he was a part of.

Before accepting Prince James’ proposal, he had no idea how true the Prince's concerns were. John saw the shift in people's eyes as they spoke from the King to the Prince and he couldn't admit that he didn't  see why. Prince James was an odd man. Too busy with his own ploys and studies to be bothered with the day to day duties of running the kingdom. It became apparent early on just how much responsibility would be rested upon his shoulders for the daily requirements to of the Sovereign. Yet, John couldn't say that he found him entirely unpleasant.  There was a strange, almost Sherlockian nature in how he prioritised and thought of the humdrum. It was familiar and comforting; and John could easily see a contented life at the side of the future king. Yet it was that nature which also kept them at arm's length.

Two years passed, and even though they were to be married and spent significant portions of the day together  (training and preparing John for the same duties James had studied for a lifetime, very daunting to say the least ), the two were still no more than friendly acquaintances. Prince James hardly seemed to notice, or if he did he really didn't care much. They didn't have much in common in terms of interest, and John didn’t feel up to following him around on his mystery experiments. It would make him think of Sherlock too much; and thinking of Sherlock was not something he let himself do.  Fortunately for him, his days were stacked to the brim with tasks and lessons to the point where there was very little daylight available to think on such thoughts. It was only at night, in his suite overlooking the barracks in which he had once slept that John’s mind dared to wander.

The brooch, the one token he had taken from Musgrave Hall --- the token of love between them, was the only thing he let himself keep. During his days on the guard, it had always been pinned under his armour. Resting over his heart, reminding him of why he enlisted in the first place. To protect --- to protect enough people so that perhaps one night he would feel crushing guilt over not being there to protect him. John’s biggest regret was not going with him, convinced that had he that somehow things might have been different. Of course, the dawn always brought the bitter reality back. What would have been different was that they would both be dead. That wasn’t much better. Besides, John hadn’t the money to make such a journey --- it had only been the Holmes’ generosity that had afforded him trip to the capital. Yet, even if Sherlock wasn’t, the brooch would always be there. A symbol to remind him that it had been real. Sherlock had existed, and had loved him and-

_God, he had never had a chance to tell him so in the proper words._

-And it had mattered. Even if it had been short lived. The brooch moved, off his day clothes and onto his night ones. The cool metal against his skin reminding him of why he did what he did. Isn’t that why he enlisted? Isn’t it why he was now marrying Prince James? To serve the kingdom, yes - but also to protect. Even now, the handsome brooch was proudly worn on his Princely attire, admittedly suiting it much better than the dirty farm rags it had once made it’s home against. It had become almost a part of him, refusing to replace it when offered offers. After his first week, it had just become accepted and no longer argued.

Sarah, the royal dresser, had eventually began to base his wardrobe around it. Noting that the blue in the gemstone brought out his eyes. Not that it mattered much to John if it matched his clothes or his eyes or whatever, Sherlock could have pinned a moldy onion slice to him and he would have worn it with the same pride. It was all that was left of him, and John refused to let it go.

 

* * *

 

 

The Square was bursting with life and excitement; the Reds and Golds of Florin hung on every banner and each flag that billowed in the breeze as the springtime sunshine shone over the Kingdom. Trumpets filled the air as up from his parapet, Prince James stood as regal as ever. King James and Queen Janine stood behind him. The Queen offering the ailing King as much support as she could muster; the man refusing to use the aide of a cane - the fear of looking weak to his people to great. Prince James was dressed in his finery, crown adorning his head as the colours of his Kingdom covered his body. This was the moment, the one they had been preparing for.

The music died, and all heads turned to face the Prince. The Prince drew himself up, the face of stoic royalty held tightly - one of the rules of being so was to never let your mask crack. You had to be more than mortal, you were a god on earth and nothing could bring you to falter. If you doubt, your people will doubt you. Fortunately for Prince James, faltering was not something in his vocabulary. “My People,” The Prince began, voice thundering with clarity over the crowd, yet still remaining charming as best he could. “In one month, our proud kingdom celebrates its 500th anniversary.”

This proclamation brought about a thunderous cheer from the crowds below, Prince James waited a moment before holding his hand up to silence them. “Yes, it is a happy and exciting time for us all; for on that sundown I shall marry a Prince of good moral character that was once a commoner like yourselves.” The crowds murmured in excitement at that, such things were not common and the declaration of such was a curious thing. Prince James felt their anticipation, a self satisfied grin reaching his face.  Allowing the indulgence as it gave him the look of pride for his betrothed. “Would you like to meet him?”

The square erupted once more, exclaiming in support - wanting to see whom among their ranks was worthy of the future king.

“My people, may I present, Prince Jonathan!”

A balcony below, dressed in the same colours but reversed, Prince John stepped out into view of the crowds for the first time. The sun catching the blue brooch he wore and catching the colour in his eyes for even the people furthest away to spot. He felt his insides clench, all the expectant eyes bore through him in a most intimidating fashion. For a moment, he expected the crowd to reject him; thinking him nothing special and undeserving of his status.

That was when he saw him, a little boy no older than nine years of age, hair wild and curly on his head (like Sherlock's) and blond. He was looking at him with the widest eyes imaginable, as if he couldn't believe he was seeing him -- as if he couldn't believe that someone like him was seeing a boy like him. He wore shabby clothes, much like John had until five years ago and he just looked so taken by him. The little boy sneakily raised his hand, close to his chest as if afraid of being spotted, and waved.

John felt his hand move on his own accord and wiggled his fingers back before turning to Count Charles, who had been standing behind him during the whole ceremony just out of sight from the audience.  “May I go below?” he asked carefully, “I wish to see the people.” The Count raised an eye intrigued but simply waved toward the staircase.  The people watched curiously as the Prince Consort vanished from eyes. Up on his parapet, Prince James frowned a little, wondering what he was up to before seeing his fiancé re-emerge at the gate, two guard standing close by as Prince John tried to put distance between them. The crowds parted as their future Prince Consort walked among them.

The little boy watched him with curious eyes, a small trace of fear in them as he approached. Probably fearing he had done something wrong and was to be punished for it now. Only to look even more confused as John got on one knee in front of him with a friendly smile. “Hello.”

The little boy gave a squeak before going into a hasty bow. “H-Hello, your highness.”

“At ease, young man.” he said, suppressing a small laugh. Was that even the right phrase for a Prince to say? He wasn't sure. John wasn't accustomed to people bowing to him. “What’s your name?” he asked as the boy scrambled back up.

“Billy, sir. Billy Wiggins.”

“Billy, eh? Billy, can I ask you why you look so scared?”

The little boy blanched, his eyes avoiding the Prince's and watching his hands instead. Focused on a Opal ring he had been given for the occasion. “I’m just a boy sir. I ‘ave no business talkin’ to a Prince.”

“Well Billy, let me tell you right now you have no reason to be scared of me. Can I tell you a secret? Just between you and me?” John lowered his voice, beckoning the boy forward.

Billy nodded with hesitation, creeping forward towards John as he smiled encouragingly. Prince John placed a hand on his shoulder. “Billy, I get scared too. In fact, when I was up there I was terrified until you waved at me.” His eyes still didn't met the Prince's fully, darting back and forth between them and the Opal ring.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, terrified. All those people looking at me, but you helped me and now I am going to give you something to help you when you're scared.” Prince John said, releasing his shoulder and prying the Opal ring off his finger. He watched Billy’s eyes go wide, and gave a small laugh. “Don't worry, it's not my engagement ring. Just a small token from one man to another, to remind you that everyone gets scared even… Prince's,” it sounded weird to say allowed, “But anyone can be brave, even if they need a little help.”

He held it out for Billy, who almost didn't believe it was real before the Prince encouraged him to take it. Billy held the ring in his hand, it felt heavy and it was still a bit too big for his finger but he put it on anyway. Holding it in place with a clenched fist before throwing his arms around John. The sight prompted muttering in the crowd before The Prince Consort returned it with a laugh, bringing a cheer from the people.

By the time he let Billy go, Count Charles stood at the gate, gesturing for John to follow. The boy ran back off to his mother and the people continued their praise. _Such a kind soul_ , they said. _Respectable, just like the king_. Prince James smiled to himself, pleased. The Count’s plan had worked. The people loved him, which would endear them to himself. Perfect.

The Count led John to the parapet the Prince stood, and the two faced the crowd side by side for the first time as their future leaders. The Royal Couple. The sight of this prompted a reaction John should have expected but still was blown away by - the entire square bowed to them. To him. He was their Prince. Florin loved him; and for the first time since Sherlock the prospect of love didn't turn him away.

“Good Job, John. Good Job indeed.”

* * *

 

For the next presentations, it was much of the same. The people flocked to him and John welcomed their presence. He listened to their stories and shared a few of his own. At the end of the day, he would lie down contented until the bittersweet realisation that meeting the people was one of only two parts of his life that brought him any sort of joy.

The second, was one he ensured to get everyday; a ride along the forest trail. The Prince Consort took the same route every day. Out of the grounds and into the King’s forest. Used typically for royal hunting parties and trespassing for common folk was forbidden. It felt foolish to John to bar an entire wood, regardless of it being so small, but he had to admit he was grateful for it a little as it provided John the only part of his day where he was truly left alone. Even at night he could hear the clinking armour of a guard outside his door. In the wood he could be alone with his thoughts; if he let his mind wander that way (which he didn't, usually) he could be reminded of the grounds that surrounded Musgrave Hall. The few times that Sherlock's antics would drive them out there, usually coming back with muddy boots and leaves in his hair. It was familiar, which made it feel more like home than the palace did.

Everyday, after lunch and before he assisted Prince James and Queen Janine in the preparations for his wedding  (god, it was fast approaching); John would mount his horse and ride through the woods for an hour and a half of solitude. He would see nobody as he followed the path, and then speak to nobody as he made his way back.

Which was why, on this particular day a week before his wedding, John was startled out of his thoughts by a peculiar sight. A woman and what seemed to be an aging man with a cane, hobbling along the road. The woman looked frantic, confused and relieved when she saw him approach the other direction.  She waved her hands, “Monsieur! Please, monsieur!” her dialect unmistakably French and her face, regardless of the tattered hood that framed it, was unmistakably gorgeous. _Calm down Watson, you are to be married in seven days._

John pulled the reign, bringing the beast to a stop before dismounting. Approaching with only slight trepidation at the sight of people in the King's Forest. While he was certain people came in all the time without being caught, he had never encountered it himself or had ever given thought to the possibility of what he would do ( or should do ) if it ever happened. “Are you alright madam?” he called forth. Steadying the stead before going forward to meet them.

The Woman rushed forward, the aging man hobbling slowly after her. “Oh monsieur, merci monsieur! We ‘ave been travelling such a long way. My père, he iz old and weary and we haff found ourselves lost!!” The woman explained, desperation clung to her every word.

John looked at her and the man, clear signs of travel upon them, and relaxed. They were not intentionally breaking the law, clearly. Just foreigners who got themselves turned around. As Prince Consort, it would be rude of him not to help this lovely french maiden and her father.

The Woman reached for John, clearly not realising whom he was or she would have had second thoughts about doing so. Blue eyes, full red lips, all clinging to hope of a hero. “Please monsieur, could you please direct us towards zee nearest village, so my père may rest? How far iz eet?”

The old man hobbled over, shaking slightly as he did, coughing loudly. His heart went to them both. “I’m sorry, good madam but the nearest town is still miles away…” John confessed, thinking perhaps if he brought them to the palace that he could arrange transportation for them.

He looked into the Woman's eyes, expecting a look of disappointment, instead she tightened the grip on his shoulder. Her other hand reaching towards his chest as she lazily drew her fingers up and down it, sending a rather distracting tingle to his spine with a smile. John let his mind water just long enough to not realise until too late that she wasn't looking at him any longer but at something behind him before she said to him, “Then there will be no one to hear you scream.”

“Scream? Wha-”

The last thing John saw was the Woman release him and step back next to the aging man, who stood up straight and steady (cane cast aside) as a large hand grabbed his neck from behind; prompting everything to fade to black.

 

* * *

 

When he awoke, John felt groggy. He also felt that his arms and legs were bound, and that he was swung over the shoulder of something large and, as it was the only thing he could make out, possessing a backside he was unfamiliar with. The next thing he did was hear voices talking as the sound of waves grew louder. A man’s voice, impatient and self dignant in tone, was throwing orders about in a bossy tone. It was survival instinct that told John to play dead still.

“Adler, I told you not to overdo it this time!” the man dictated, “and you, Lestrade you great lummox; had you been two seconds too late the idiot would have been able to run away! Then where would we be?!”

A growling voice, one that John could feel the vibrations of as he was jostled about, responded. “Oi, I did my best, Hope.” he complained, leaving John to figure out of he was Adler or Lestrade.

"But I'd like to see you try to sneak up on a man when you're my size. Dunno why you never get Adler to do the sneaking about, she's better at it.” he answered. _Lestrade_ , he ventured to guess.

“Because, people tend to be frightened off by you. Really how much longer must we go over this?” The voice he presumed belonged to Hope answered. “God help me for trusting you to help me start a war.”

This prompted a reaction from John, his body went tense and he wasn't certain that it was subtle either. A war. These people, his captors, we're trying to start a war and somehow they were going to use him to do it. Yet, if the brute called Lestrade failed to notice then John would have to use this to his advantage - playing dead a bit longer till he could break free.  Maybe learn of information more useful to report back to the Prince.

He heard a horse, it sounded like the his own, and the slight tear of fabric. A new voice, positively female - French toned but not as strongly as it had been before, called over. “What is it you are doing Hope? We're ready to head off!” She inquired, curious but also judgment tinged. _That must be Adler, the Woman_.

Hope responded, sounding closer than he had before. “It's fabric from the uniform of an army officer of Gilder - GET!” A smack sounded as John heard the whinny of his horse and the sound of hooves running off. “Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric will make the Prince suspect the Gilderians have abducted his love. When he finds his body dead on the Gilder frontier, his suspicions will be totally confirmed.” So it was a murder plot, perfect.

Adler snorted, as John felt the ground that Lestrade carried him over shift. Movements more unsteady, accompanied the creaking of wood. They had boarded the boat. “I'm still not entirely sold on having to _kill_ the man.” She countered.

Judging by the sigh from Hope, John guessed it was something she did often. “Come on now, I hired you to help me start a war! It's a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition!”

If John hadn't been too busy to find a way to free himself before the boat set sail, he would have snorted himself at that. Lestrade spoke this time, humming questionably. “It just doesn't feel right murdering a decent and innocent fella?”

This seemed to set Hope off, “Am I going mad, or did the word _THINK_ escape your lips?!” he snapped, “You were not hired for your brains, so leave the thinking to the intelligent ones!”

“I happen to agree with dear Greg.” Adler shot back, but John couldn't tell if she meant it or was just trying to further get a rise from him.

“Oh! Now you have a sensitive heart, do you?! I WILL KILL HIM IF I MUST, but don't you forget this, don't ever forget this; when I met you, you were pissed off your arse and in trouble with a lot of powerful people. Anyone else woulda turned you in for a reward!” Hope shouted, leaving John to wonder what sort of trouble he meant. Adler didn't have a smart retort for this, so the man continued. “And YOU! Alone. Friendless. Everyone feared you! Do you want to be sent back to where you were? Hmm? Unemployed in Greenland?!” John felt Lestrade stiffen, showing that last bit had been for him. “Now put the man down, we are setting off now! OH - and I’d send our friend back into a sleep. His highness has been listening to us for a bit now.”

John was out once more before his body even reached the deck.

 

* * *

 

By the time he came to once more, night had fallen and they were surrounded by water on all sides. John’s wrists were bound uncomfortably but not enough to cut circulation off entirely, whereas her noticed his ankles had been freed. Probably as it wasn't needed with there nowhere for him to run. Not that he had ever had much in the way of sea legs.

His eyes lazily drooped to give the cover of sleeping, but through his eyelashes he could finally begin to put faces to voices. The large man, standing on the upper deck, was undoubtedly the thing that had carried him: Lestrade, or Greg as he recalled the Woman naming him such. He had greying hair and despite being so large a kind face. Yet, his size and veritable strength was likely what had been so off putting about him in Hope's account. If John hadn't been held captive by him, he could easily see him being a face he would have gone to a pub with.

Hope, whom John recognized as the aging man, walked with the spring of a much younger man. No quake or quiver in his step. Proving just how duped Prince John had been. He was a little man, almost seemingly unremarkable except for a look he held in his eye that always seemed to know more than you. Clearly, this was their leader - the one who wanted him dead and was willing to do the honours. Unlike Lestrade, Hope was entirely Grey and thinning. He wore round glasses that aged him further and had a funny look about him.

The Woman, Adler - lithe yet strong in stature. Now that she no longer wore a traveler's cloak, John could see that she was clearly the blade in their operations. Fine regal cutlass strapped to her side as long clean fingers tapped the handle in an almost subconscious motion every so often. Long dark hair swept up effortlessly on her head. She always seemed to wear an expression like she was thinking. _What was she thinking_ ? He couldn't help but wonder, _what could be so demanding of her attention to always have some of it?_ It was also Adler who stood at the wheel.

John felt footsteps and quickly shut his eyes once more as he heard a bench nearby move. “There ain't any reason in pretending, your highness. I know you're awake.” It was Hope. “Yeh might as well enjoy the sights while you can, you’ll be dead tomorrow.”

The Prince cleared his throat, turning his head to fully meet his captor's gaze for the first time. “Regardless of what you think, you will be caught and when you are you’ll all be hanged for treason, I’d reckon.”

Hope smirked at his words. “Of all the necks on this boat, highness, the one you should be worried about is your own.” John stiffened at his words, but was relieved as his attention diverted back to Adler. “We will reach the cliffs by dawn and- Why are you doing that?!”

The Prince shifted in his seat instinctively at Hope's shout, seeing that Adler kept turning her head into the direction behind them. The sudden movement also brought a sharp jab to his side. A loose nail, bingo!

Adler looked down towards Hope, “Are you _sure_ nobody's following us?” She asked uncertainly, her tone conveying that she had commented on this prospect before.

“As I told you, it would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways, inconceivable. No one in Gilder knows what we've done, and no one in Florin could've gotten here so fast.” Hope admonished, pausing slightly before a quiver of doubt crept into his voice. “ But out of curiosity, why do you ask?”

“Because for the last hour, I've noticed that we got ourselves a shadow… but since you were so _confident_ otherwise, I figured it must have been my _sensitive female heart_ clouding my judgement.” Adler’s voice dripped with honeyed venom towards Hope. Clearly, his comments from earlier had not been forgotten or forgiven so easily.

Hope leaped from his seat, scampering over quickly as Lestrade turned in curiosity. In the distance, over the moonlit waves, a small ship could be seen. It was too small to be royal navy, yet too big to be a casual sailor. Adler placed a hand on her hip, one eyebrow cocked matter of factly towards the smaller man. He could feel her stares, grinding his teeth at the prospect of being outwitted by his subordinates. “That? Oh, that's nothing.” he said.

“Is that so?” Adler quipped.

“Of course! It's likely just a fisherman, out for a pleasure cruise at night. Nothing to fuss over.”

If Adler had a response, it was stolen from her by a sudden loud splash sounded from the side of the ship. When all eyes turned, they could see the sawed off bits of rope that had held their mark and the silhouette of Prince John attempting to swim away.

* * *

 

John paddled as hard as he could, kicking his legs with matched vigor. It was noisy, but the splash had already given him away. All he could do was hope to swim fast enough to reach the other side of the channel. The plot to murder him, just to start a war during this time of peace, needed to be reported immediately. He could already see Prince James locking himself in his private studies with the Count and emerging with a devilishly clever plan in response.

In the distance, he could hear Hope screeching to his subordinates.

“Adler! Chase him down! You were suppose to be watching him, Lestrade!”

“Oi, you never said it was my turn! You were sitting  with him.”

“You cannot blame him for this, Hope!”

“Shut up and just get him back!!”

Despite the chaos on the boat, it still managed to chase him efficiently. Water clashing as he pumped his arms and legs with all his might. He could feel the water ripple violently around him and the shouts of Hope almost caused John to miss a terrifying hiss that came from the depths below. Pausing on the spot, treading in the water, John listened as the hiss came again but louder. Closer and accompanied.

Something was lurking in the waters beneath him, and it was annoyed about being disturbed. The light on the ship highlighted the ghastly grin on Hope’s face as he looked down at him in the water. “Do you know what that sound is, highness?” he called out. “Those are the shrieking eels.”

Around him, John could see the waves ripple of their own accord. Something circling him just out of sight. The hissing was constant; monstrous and menacing. He had to admit that he was a bit frightened.

“If you swim back now, I promise no harm will befall you tonight.” Hope promised, holding his hand over his heart as if delivering a pledge.

Lestrade reached over the edge, offering a long muscled arm in offering to him. “Gotta be honest mate, I doubt you'll get such an offer from them.”

“Not that we need you entirely.” Adler piped up, placing a hand on Hope's shoulder. “You know as a soldier, I thought you would have taken better bearings of yourself.” John’s eye locked on her hand, resting on Hope's left shoulder where just below it he saw something shine in the moonlight. His heart dropped as he reached for his chest and felt only fabric where the brooch usually rested. John’s blood went cold.

So much so in fact, the he missed the ripple in the water that was beelining directly to him until just before the jaw of a shrieking eels was widening to attack-

 

* * *

 

“Rosie?”

The blonde girl looked up, face a bit paler than before, as her fingers clenched around the (undoubtedly) expensive bedding Sherlock owned. “Hmm?”

“Are you okay?” Molly asked, concern covering her face. Reaching forward, she placed a hand to her forehead. “You feel about the same but you look unwell. Well, more so.”

Rosie nodded. “I'm fine.” She spoke in a small voice very much unlike her, biting down on her lip.

Molly studied her for a moment before realising what was going on. Rosie was frightened. In an attempt to save the little girl’s pride, she offered her Goddaughter a kind smile. “Maybe we should rest for a bit. Continue this in a bit?”

Her eyes widened, “What? No! Aunt Molly it's okay!”

“I don't want to upset you sweetie.”

“I'm not upset! Promise!”

She thought for a minute. “Okay let's make a deal, I need to rest my voice. So how about I make us some lunch. If you still want to continue the story after, we can. Okay?”

Rosie considered this for a moment before agreeing. Molly placed the book on the side table, slipping a bookmark in before she did. She let out a surprised sound as she checked her phone. 12 missed messages from Sherlock and John - that couldn't be good.

* * *

 

“I just don't understand how?” Molly explained, emerging from the bathroom with a bottle of calamine lotion.

Sherlock sat smugly in his chair as John sat across from him, head a bit woozy as bright red dots began showing on his skin. “I guess something Rosie touched carried the damn virus.” John muttered in exasperation. Trying very hard not to think of the irritation growing on his skin. “Bloody perfect, I'm too damn old for this!”

“I tried to warn you that it was already likely for you to catch them, but you do get so stubborn.” Sherlock quipped.

Molly clucked sympathetically. “I'm sorry John, here put this on. I left the medicine in Sherlock’s room, so just give me a moment.”

John shook his head. “Don't worry about it, besides it would be nice to see my daughter after these last few days.” he answered, rising from his seat. Taking the bottle of lotion from Molly before heading down the hall. He rapped lightly against the door before poking his head in. “Ro? You awake, love?”

Sandwich tray discarded to the further side of the bed, a mess of blonde curl stuck out from underneath a sea of cushion and comforter. “Da?” She yawned, having fallen asleep once more while she waited for Molly to come back. “Dad what are you doing here? Aren't you going to get sick?” She pulled the blanket closer to her chest as she if that would protect him from catching

“A bit late for that, I'm afraid.” he answered, stepping into the room where Rosie could better see the bright red spots on his face.

The little girl gasped, “Oh no! Dad are you going to be okay?” Remembering the reason why they had been separated for a bit.

He gave her a smile, brushing her hair from her face and bending down to kiss the top of her head. “Don't you worry about me sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“I'm okay, I guess. Molly has been telling me stories and Sherlock has been keeping me company when I was sad.” Rosie reached out for his hand, having been without her dad for days and not wanting him to go anytime soon. “Does this mean you can stay with me now?”

That just nearly broke John’s heart, squeezing her little hand in his. “I'm sorry sweetheart, but I'm not leaving you now. You and I get to be sick together, which is a better than being sick alone don't you think?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“I suppose we should get ourselves home though.” John mused just as someone entered the room behind them.

“Oh I don't think so.” Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking at the two Watsons’ with an arched eyebrow. “Neither of you are fit to walk, and you can't take a cab or tube because you are contagious. Come now John, aren't you suppose to be a doctor?”

John looked like he was about to say something sarcastic before remembering Rosie was there, and just settled with a sardonic laugh. “Funny, but surely we've intruded enough here.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Nonsense. Watson has never been an intrusion. Sometimes she's better company than you.” he said, a teasing wink to Rosie who smirked. “And I have grown accustomed to your presence, so I believe we will manage just fine John… besides, Mrs Hudson already caught sight of you and she’ll never hear the end of it if I let you go like this.”

John sighed, but there was a hint of amusement to it. “Well sweetheart, looks like your godfather is holding us hostage.”

“Does that mean we can stay and hear the rest of the story?” Rosie asked, “Is Aunt Molly still here? Aunt Molly?!” She called out.

Sherlock looked to John, who gave a shake of his head. “Well…” he thought aloud, figuring Sherlock would want his room back and mentally trying to decide if the Couch or the Upstairs bedroom was best for her. Absentmindedly scratching his neck. Would Molly want to give up her whole day now that they were here? He didn't want to guilt her into staying if she was busy.

“Daddy no scratching.” Rosie scolded.

Sherlock smirked. “I think we still have some clothes of yours upstairs. Go get changed, put that lotion on and I will see if Molly can be persuaded to stay a bit longer.”

“And you two will stay for the story right?” Rosie pouted.

“Well actually I had something to-”

“YES, Sherlock and I will stay for the story.”

* * *

  

“Err.. are you two sure that you want to stay? The story… Well, I told it in a bit of a _silly_ way…” Molly hesitated, cheeks flushed as as she sat at the foot of the bed.

John had been convinced by Rosie to sit with her, and he couldn't help but think of how surreal a sight it was to have he and his daughter spending a sick day in Sherlock’s bed. Not that Sherlock minded from what he could tell, he had even gone to the effort of getting Molly to help him drag his chair into the room to get himself comfortable.

“It's about you and Sherlock now.” Rosie piped up.

“Oh?” John asked curiously.

Molly looked a bit guilty.

“So, uh, what story is it?”

“ _The Princess Bride_.” Rosie answered.

John blinked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Should I know what that is?”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“I told you, it was silly.” Molly looked as if she wanted the ground to swallow her up.

Rosie tugged on his sleeve. “You were in trouble from the eels dad.”

“I was… from the eels… ah. So… so I am the Princess? You made _me_ the Princess in _The Princess Bride_ ? Out of the two of us, _I_ screamed Princess more than that guy?!”  John sputtered, cheeks red.

Sherlock snorted. “If the crown fits, John…”

“And what's wrong with being a Princess?!” Rosie frowned indignantly.

Molly and Sherlock gave John a look, who gulped before sighing in defeat. “Absolutely nothing, I was just… surprised by the casting… Molly if you would like to start now?”

 

* * *

 

So much so in fact, the he missed the ripple in the water that was beelining directly to him until just before the jaw of a shrieking eels was widening to attack. For a moment, John thought this was it for him - until he felt a huge hand grip the scruff of his shirt and hoist him from the water, just missing the creature's grasp.

“Put him down! Put him down!” He heard Hope shout as Lestrade lowered him onto the deck. Adler wasted no time before tying his wrists back together.

“And this time, keep him away from anything he could free himself with.” She snipped to Hope, who dismissed her comments.

Lestrade, however, was looking back out onto the water. “I think it's getting closer.”

“What?!” Hope snapped, as the soaking Prince struggled against him as he was shoved against the the sail pole.

“The ship! Look see?!”

Hope growled. “It's no concern of ours!” Lestrade sighed and went to rejoin Adler on the upper deck. Hope settled on the ground next to John. Snide smirk on his lips. “I suppose you think that was very brave, don't ya?”

Prince John gave him the coldest stare, his eyes not even hiding the fact that they lingered on Sherlock's brooch. Wanting nothing more than to reach over and rip it off him and strangle the man who stole it. Not necessarily in that order. “Only compared to some.”


	5. Chapter Four: Adler

**“You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”**

_“You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.”_

 

__\- The Princess Bride,_ Directed by Rob Reiner _

 

 

* * *

 

The sun began to crack it's beams across the sky, stirring John from one of the most restless sleeps of his life. His back was stiff from being propped against the mast all night; his clothes still damp from the late night dip he took and it was sending an uncomfortable chill throughout his body. Furthermore, he felt a throb on the back of his neck where Lestrade kept rendering him unconscious and a chafing on his wrists from the ropes that bound him.

As his eyes adjusted, to the dawn’s light he was greeted by the face of Adler sitting on a crate near him. Watching him and the horizon in equal measure. “Good morning your highness, hope you slept well. I don't expect you to have, but all the same…” She mused. Her tone almost apologetic nature. _Almost_. Her voice accented slightly, so perhaps that hadn't been entirely false yesterday but nowhere near as strong or overpowering as it had been in the Woods.

“Yeah well, all things considered, can't complain much. Least I got my health.” Prince John smirked darkly.

Adler gave him a smile of genuine amusement, before turning her head back to the horizon. John’s eyes instinctively followed her gaze where he could see that the ship she had spotted the night before was still in pursuit. “Greg, Hope - look, he is right on top of us!” She bellowed, startling John with the abruptness of her shout.

Lestrade waddled over, clearly stiff from a restless night. John wondered if anyone on board had been able to sleep. “Damn. Shit, Irene what do we do?”

“What are you asking her for?!” Hope snapped impatiently. “Besides, whomever they are it's too late. See?” Hope pointed with glee beyond the mast. “The Cliffs of Insanity!”

Through the morning mist, John saw the outline of a massive crumbling Cliffside. No discernable of passing it. He expected the ship to turn, make way towards a Harbour or at least flat land to disembark on. Instead they sailed right into a sandy nook along the rocky shoreline. John looked about, searching for a sign of cave or path up or through the chasm. Only to face a morbid realisation upon facing his captors.Lestrade, being strapped into a makeshift harness as Adler (Irene Adler, apparently) hopped off the ship and brought to John’s attention a rope that seemed to dangle from the never ending heights of the cliff. _Oh lord, they expected to climb_.

“Only Lestrade is strong enough to go our way.” Adler called back, for John’s benefit as he realised by her eyes meeting his as Hope hoisted him up to his feet, leading him over to the ropes. Her lips were freshly painted and hair still swept cleanly despite spending a night at sea. “The pursuer will have to sail a bit till he finds Harbour.”

“So you've done this before then?” John asked, as casually as he could. He didn't want to give his captors the satisfaction of sensing his trepidation over this exceedingly foolish and dangerous plan.

Adler shrugged. “Once, just to see if we can. But we didn't have a fourth with us, so this should be fun.”  A mischievous twinkle in her eye as Hope rolled his eyes.

“Enough chatting, Adler. We have a war to start.”

John tried not to let his hesitations show as a rope was tied around his waist and attached to Lestrade. He forced himself not to look up at the impossible feat in front of them, and focused on Hope and Adler strapping themselves to the Brute. Once everyone was secure, Lestrade gave a grunt. “Hold on tight, here we go.”

He was thankful that he was behind Lestrade, his face screwing tight fretfully as he felt the man lift them all off the ground and began to scale. The rope serving more as a precaution as Lestrade’s bare hands on the rock did most of the work. John would have been amazed if he wasn't scared of falling to his death. Of all the ways to die, impact was not one he favoured. The climb was silent, ignoring Lestrade’s pants as he occasionally stalled to catch his breath. Hope's incessant smug speech had stopped as well, but as had Adler’s almost friendly disposition.

It wasn't until they were about half way up (or so he hoped they were, John really didn't want to look up and down much to find out for sure) that someone broke the silence. It was Adler and her words brought shock to everyone. “Look, below!” She said, a mixture of wary and impressive admiration in her half accented voice.

John willed himself to glance down, his vision blurring from the height initially before focusing on what exactly brought his captors worry. The pursuit ship had docked next to theirs, and a Man in Black had disembarked and had begun _climbing_ the rope after them. “He’s gaining on us!” Adler exclaimed, and John couldn't tell if she was annoyed or impressed by this.

Even Hope didn't have a clever retort this time, “It's not possible!” he gasped, gaping wordlessly for few moments after before turning Lestrade. “Climb faster!! Move!!”

“Easy for you to say, you aren't doing the hard part.” Lestrade grunted.

Hope didn’t seem to care. “Is the brute now complaining about being so? You were suppose to be this colossus. You were this great legendary thing. And. Yet. He. Gains.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “Well, I'm carrying three people and he only has himself.” he muttered, but John noticed that he still pushed himself to meet Hope's demand.

John felt their climb grow more frantic, the tugs on the Rope below them giving telltale signs on how close The Man in Black was. His mind couldn't help from wandering; wondering who this mysterious figure was.

At long last the peak came into view, Hope continued to berate Lestrade to move faster as they reached the final stage of their climb. Below, The Man in Black was relentless. Finally, Lestrade hoisted them over the edge, and onto solid ground. John had never been happier to be on his feet again, even if it was in the company of villains.

Hope wasted no time, the moment he was free from his harness he pulled a knife out of his pocket. Sawing the rope they had used off the makeshift anchor that John felt grateful in not knowing to just be another rock before reaching the top. Had he known fear of a rockslide as well of falling were in the cards, he might had passed right out. With a final **snap** , the rope broke and slid down the the abyss from which the climbed.

Adler skipped over, peering over the edge before gasping. “Oh my, he's still alive!”

“What?!” Hope stormed over to the cliff edge. “He didn't _fall?_ This is just inconceivable!” And it was true, clinging to the jagged rocks, The Man in Black gripped tightly and began his unsteady climb.

Prince John stood, wrists bound, clothes dampened and restrained by a single hand on his shoulder Lestrade. Yet now that he could see him and the fear of a painful death passed, all John could think of was the brooch that dangled from Hope’s shirt. A fear of it slipping and falling to be lost into the waves below. The Man in Black almost forgotten by him entirely until Hope spoke again, his back to John.

“Well, whomever he is. He has clearly seen the Prince in our possession and must not be allowed to live.” he declared matter of factly. “Lestrade, carry him. You and I will head for the frontier. Adler, catch up when he is dead. If he falls, fine. If not -”  he didn't speak, his eyes just lingered to the blade Adler’s fingers were already reaching for.

“Alright.” She answered, before adding with some bite. “But I am doing it my way.”

“Adler! You know time is crucial!”

“It doesn't matter. I'm doing it my way or you can fight him off with your tiny knife instead.”

“Do whatever you want. Just get it done.” Hope relented, a satisfied grin on her lips as he turned to Lestrade. “Let's go.”

John shouted in displeasure as he felt himself hoisted up off the ground and thrown over Lestrade’s shoulder in an graceless manner. Adler shot John a respectful bow of her head before turning back to the cliff to wait for her opponent.

 

* * *

 

Irene Adler liked to do things her way; she liked exerting control whenever possible but also she found her way to be the proper way. Her dominant hand, the one that never quivered or missed, was a guaranteed victory. She had trained her whole life to fight right handed. Which was why it was so much more satisfying when her weaker hand destroyed people at their best. It was a training method in her mind, disciplining herself to be stronger than her weaknesses so one day when she faced the ultimate enemy she could not be exploited. The Woman had made such mistakes before.

The Man in Black had her curiosity. Of course she wondered what he wanted and why he was willing to pursue them for it; but those questions weren't as interesting as who he was and what he could do. He had already proved himself by not dying yet as more than just a common thief. Irene wanted to peel the mask back and crawl inside the mind that ticked inside it. Learn it's secrets and better herself with it. Moreover, she wanted to see how he fought. He was armed, she could see the handle of an undoubtedly fine blade dangling from his belt when she peered down. He held the flexibility, agility and strength to climb this way - what was he like with a blade?

It had been far too long since she had faced a worthy combatant; which was why she felt herself getting restless and wanting him to reach the top alive. After an hour of patience, Irene crouched down near the top and called out. “Bonjour monsieur, fine day isn't it?”

The Man in Black looked up, voice deep and coated in a french accent of his own. “Bonjour madame, there is not much to complain about.”

“How do you find the climb?” She called back. “I felt it get a bit breezy toward the top.”

The Man in Black hissed as he struggled to climb. “Just a tad. Bit chilly, don't you think? Not surprising however, with the altitude.”

“A bit but as long as you head west before nightfall, you should be safe from catching your death with the cold.” She mused, smoothing her hair into her updo once more.

“Look, I don't mean to be rude - actually, I don't really care either way, but this isn't exactly an easy task and if you wish for me to join you then it'd be prudent to not distract me.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Irene walked away and unsheathed her sword. In as much patience as she could muster, she began to familiarize herself with the immediate terrain. Marking a few rocks and a nearby tree as focal points, Irene succeeded in distracting herself from the terrible wait for about forty minutes before returning to the Cliffside. The Man in Black had made some progress, which was vastly impressive, but still a long ways away. Sheathing her weapon once more, Irene called out to the man. “You certainly are taking your time, aren't you? Wishing to test my theory about nightfall?”

The Man in Black sighed, and despite the black mask that covered his face, Irene could have sworn to see him roll his eyes. “If you are in such a hurry, you could make yourself useful and lower me a tree branch or something…”

Irene clasped her hands together, “Oh I could do that. There's still some rope up here; however I do not think that you would accept my help if you knew that I am only waiting around to kill you.”

The Man in Black gave a sarcastic wince, “Well, that _does_ put a damper in our relationship.”

“Yet, I promise to not kill you until you reach the top.”

“Temping, but I'm afraid you’ll just have to wait.”

“God, haven't I done so enough?” She muttered to herself before shouting down. “Oh come now, isn't there anything that could convince you to trust me?”

“Based on the available information, no. Not particularly, madame.”

Irene paused for a moment, thinking before she crouched down, leveling as much as she could to the mysterious shadow below. Her eyes solemn as she spoke to him, “Monsieur, I swear on the soul of Kate Adler that you will reach the top alive.”

The Man in Black looked up, studying her carefully, looking for a hint of deception on her face. There was none to be found. “Toss me the rope.”

 

* * *

 

It took no more than fifteen minutes for the Woman to help pull The Man in Black up; significantly faster than if he had been left to his own devices and quite frankly, Irene had no desire to linger long enough to see her claims about nightfall come true. It had caused her some strain, but The Man in Black seemed worse for wear judging by his gasping breaths as he climbed up and brushed himself off.

Irene watched him reach for his sword, as he was now expecting a duel. Instead she just offered a hand up in defence. “No not yet, sit. Wait until you are ready.”

The Man in Black paused before sighing in relief, “Thank you.” He took a seat on a nearby rock and Irene follow suited across from him.

She was already dueling this man so it seemed pointless to ask, and while his face was partially obscured he didn't look old enough for the character. However, habit dictated she asked him anyway. “I don't mean to pry, but do you happen to have six fingers on your right hand?”

He gave her an absurd look through his mask. “Is that how you typically greet people?”

Irene gave him a small amused sniff, smiling slightly in concession. “My wife was killed by a six fingered man.” At this, The Man in Black appeared more sympathetic, holding up his right hand. He pulled the black leather glove off, revealing only five long slender pale fingers. Irene, pacified nodded her head in thanks. “My wife, Kate - she used to help her father at the forge. He was good at sword making, but oh, Kate breathed it. One day, the six fingered man came and requested a sword. The extra finger prompting a challenge for usual blades to be as effective.”

The Man in Black listened, seemingly genuinely interested in this tale. “Did Kate not succeed?” he asked tentatively.

Irene gave a sad laugh. “Oh no, Kate worked and slaved for almost a year. Perfecting every tiny detail until it was ready. She was so proud, her finest work. However, when the Six Fingered Man returned he demanded it for a third of the asking price. Kate refused. Without hesitation, he picked up his sword and stabbed her through the chest. I was devastated.” She paused for a moment, eyes shut as if reliving it all over again. Once composed, she continued, “So I picked up the six-fingered sword and challenged him to a duel. I lost, naturally. I had hardly ever touched a sword let alone fought with one. However, the Six Fingered Man let me live - but not untouched. He gave me this…” She angled her head, showing a thin scar that trailed along her jaw, and then the other way showing it's twin.

“How long ago was this?” The Man in Black asked.

“Twelve years ago. After Kate died, there was nothing holding me to that town so I took the sword and went around the world. Training with anyone who would teach me; practicing for the day in which I would meet the man again.” Irene’s voice took a cool edge, “So when next we meet, I will not lose. I will look him in the eye and telling (?)  him: _Hello, my name is Irene Adler. You killed my wife, prepare to die_ ; just before I stab him through the heart with his own blade.”

At this, Irene withdrew the blade she carried, holding it out for the Man in Black to examine. Curious eyes took hold of it. Feeling it's balance and weight, giving it a satisfying swish in the air. A small grin of amazement on his lips shone for a second before replaced with a stoic condolence. “I've never seen it's equal.” he mused, offering it back to The Woman. “So you've done nothing but study swordplay?”

Irene shrugged, the severity of the previous moment passing. “More of a pursuit than a study. It likely will come as no shock to you, but there isn't very much money in revenge. So I make my way through the world, I misbehave.”

The Man in Black arched an eyebrow at this, to which she only replied with a devilish smirk before explaining: “I did so to such an extent however, that I found myself stuck in India in some trouble when Hope found me about three years ago. He helped me get out and I've been working with him ever since to pay the bills.”

The Man in Black paused, connecting dots in his head before a curl of his lip and a knowing grin spread across his face. “India, three years ago? That would be around the time of the scandal with the Prince wouldn't it?”

It wasn't a question, so Irene felt no need to confirm what he had figured out. Instead they just shared a silent laugh and rested. A few moments passed before The Man in Black spoke again. “Well, I truthfully and sincerely hope you find the man some day.” he answered, rising to his feet and stretching.

Irene stood up, her fingers grazing across the grip of her blade. “Are you sure you are ready?”

“Doesn't matter if I am not, you've been more than fair.”

“You seem a decent man, monsieur. I hate to kill you, promise me one thing? If you win, don't let Hope kill the Prince. This whole thing has bad air around it, to me.”

“I promise; you seem a decent woman, madame. I hate to have to die.”

The both drew their swords as an unspoken referee between them declared: _begin._ Eyes watched each other for a moment; waiting for one to make the first move.

 

**Clash**

**Clash**

_MISS_

 

They circled one another, eyes never leaving the other. The two duelists moved in perfect harmony, mirroring the other's movement as if in a dance. Irene had always felt the two were closely joined, swordplay and dance. You needed to be fluid, precise, yet open to improvisation. Something The Man in Black seemed to agree upon.

They were toying with each other, testing the waters. Their blades flirting with each other, teasing as they clashed.  A worthy opponent - not something to be wasted. Irene had spent her days in recent years with low life's who couldn't tell which end of the sword was the pointed one. Yet now, she felt her heart speed up. Her attentions demanded in full, she inhaled sharp breaths as the dance continued - but was satisfied to see The Man in Black do the same.

His blade work was precise, he must have been practicing since a young age. Moving with mostly muscle memory and less active thinking. His footwork was noted too, but perhaps less refined than his arms. As if they wanted to take off and run without the rest of him, anxious and itching to go. Irene’s feet were more controlled, more calculated yet what she made up for there was lost in the arm work. She had to still think, he had years of refinement where she did not. A touch too slow to actually hit him, yet watching him move was a great teacher.

Together they were perfectly balanced, had they been on the same side the two fighters would have been unstoppable. Instead, the two moved against each other. Hearts pounding and sweat dripping from their brows; trying their best to out move the other - yet both not wanting the adrenaline rush of their dance to end. Irene swept at his feet with her own, staggering him slightly but blocking the blade that came to pierce him. It was exhilarating. The Man in Black returned the gleeful smile she wore on her face, yet a voice in the back of her head began to whisper.

 

_You know this cannot last forever. One of you will have to kill the other._

 

It was a harsh bitter truth, but it was followed by another one.

 

_You made him promise to save the Prince. You know Hope is wrong; but what will you do should you win? Can you really kill the best dueler you've met in years? Even if you do? Will_ **_you_ ** _stop Hope?_

 

Irene’s thoughts took her focus, returning it just enough to realise the incoming swipe of The Man in Black’s foot. Apparently he had been watching and studying her moves too. It couldn't be said if Irene fell of her own accord or if she was truly bested. The Woman fell onto her back as The Man in Black’s sword tip was held to her throat. She slowly moved her knees. Her sword far from her hand in the dirt next to her, looking up at the man. His eyes seemingly in thought. She lost; but maybe someone else can live now. Irene was a woman of honor, she knew what her defeat meant. Her only regret was failing in avenging Kate. “If you are going to kill me, do it quickly.”

At this, The Man in Black laughed. “Madame, I would sooner destroy a stained glass window before an artist like yourself.”

“What?” was he offering her mercy?

The Man shrugged, “The only thing is, that I can't have you following me either.”

“Who are you?”

“Nobody to be bothered with.”

“I must know.”

“Get used to disappointment.” He spoke, “But, please know I hold you in the highest regards.”

That was the last thing Irene saw before she felt something hit her head and the world went black.

 

 


	6. Chapter 5: Lestrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was under the weather and unable to finish the chapter sooner. I will be posting two chapters next time, as Chapter Seven was the first part of the story I wrote.

**INCONCEIVABLE! Give her to me. Catch up with us quickly.**

_What do I do?_   
**FINISH HIM, FINISH HIM! YOUR WAY!** **  
** Oh good, my way. Thank you Vizzini. Which way's my way?

 **Pick up one of those rocks, get behind the boulder. In a few minutes the man in black will come running around the bend. The minute his head is in view, HIT  IT WITH THE ROCK!!**   
_My way's not very sportsmanlike._   


**\- The Princess Bride,** _Directed by Rob Reiner_

* * *

 

“Inconceivable!"

 

John shifted as he heard Hope sputter, thankful that the Brute ( or rather, _Greg_ ) had let him upon his feet again as they stopped. Hope looked aghast, but the Prince Consort couldn't help but notice that a curious spark had taken hold of his eye. The little man was thinking, John could practically see the cogs turning in his head as a clever smile spread across his lips. It reminded him almost of the grin Prince James wore when he was being clever - the one that reminded him of Sherlock. Except, this time it was twisted and it unnerved him.

For off in the distance was a black figure chasing them, John looked up at Lestrade ( who still clasped him tightly, as if  he thought he might run towards his pursuer ). There was a sinking in his chest; if The Man in Black was alive then it must mean that Adler… _Why did you care? Because she showed you some gentility as she kidnapped you, with the intent of murder?_ Perhaps it was the saddened look on Lestrade’s face as he reached the same conclusion John had. Adler was out and the mysterious Man in Black gained.

Hope turned harshly, gripping his greedy hands on John’s upper arm. The brooch sparkling in the afternoon sun tauntingly, momentarily drawing John’s eye away from their stalker and onto the token of Sherlock's broken promise. Broken or not; it was all that was left and John wanted it back. Hope definitely noticed, his eyes always watching, had begun smirking. “Lestrade, give me your scarf.”  

The brute reached into his side pouch, withdrawing a blue strip of fabric hesitantly. “It's a bit warm for it…”

Hope rolled his eyes, “Not for what I have in mind.”

John’s vision was suddenly navy blue as the scarf wrapped around his eyes. Feeling it knotted securely as a makeshift blindfold. He wondered what use in blindfolding him was until he felt the unmissable tip of a sharp object press warningly against his throat. _A knife._

“I’ll take the Prince.” Hope jerked him from Lestrade’s grasp. “You stay here and finish him. None of Adler’s honorifics this time, the last time I rely on the French to do something without a big production… just kill him. I’ll be waiting for you further down the path.”

Lestrade sighed. “Hope, this isn't what we agreed to. We agreed to kidnapping the Prince, you want to kill him - fine. I didn't sign on for this. Adler… _Irene_ has already suffered for this.  I don't care what the man offered you, this isn't worth it. Now this guy….”

For a moment, John thought his prayers had been answered. That Hope would agree with Lestrade and set them free. Perhaps Lestrade, _Greg_ wasn't as bad minus the kidnapping. But then Hope snarled, he whispered something in a threatening tone to Greg that John couldn't make out and by the pull on his arm leading him away; he realised that Hope had won.  

“You have proven to be very difficult your highness, one cannot help but wonder who would chase you so adamantly outside of the Prince.”

John couldn't help but share the same thoughts. 

* * *

 

The Man in Black reached the rock formations, the trail was still fresh which meant that he wasn't too far behind. The joy of battle aside, he hadn't quite anticipated the slowdown of the duel. Precious time had been lost. His mind was recalibrating. Attempting to reform the ideal plan - the best route when something abruptly shook him from his thoughts. The shaking smash of a rock nearly colliding with his head.  

* * *

 

The Man in Black jumped, turning towards the direction it was thrown from. From behind a formation, Lestrade walked out. Another small boulder in one hand, ready to throw. Within seconds, The Man in Black drew his sword and stood ready to move.

“I missed on purpose.” Lestrade told him, it wasn't a brag. It was a fact. He wanted him to know he hadn't wanted to hit him.

The Man in Black studied him for a second before responding. “I believe you.”

“I don't like that this is how we must fight. So uncivilized, I might just let you pass if you hadn't harmed my friend.”

“Ze french woman, I presume?”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose telling you I was merciful to her wouldn't change anything.”

“Unfortunately not.”

The Man in Black shrugged. “Then why haven't you thrown ze rock yet?”

Lestrade smirked. “I told you. It's _uncivilized_ ; despite my appearance I am not the Brute everyone takes me for.”

“So what do we do then? I need to pass, but you won't let me pass.”

“I don't have to throw this rock. We have to engage, there is no way around that; but we can be civilized.”

“You mean, you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword and we will fight as civilized people.”

“Or I could just kill yeh now if you'd rather?”

The Man in Black lowered his blade. “I suppose zis scenario will provide me a better chance, but frankly I feel ze odds are slightly in your favour when it comes to street wrestling.”

Lestrade laughed, and The Man in Black couldn't help but grin, as he tossed the rock away. “Sorry mate, I can't help being the biggest and the strongest. Just come naturally I guess.” The two stood facing each other. Bracing themselves.

 

Then The Man in Black charged.

 

He tried to topple the man, cause a stumble. Instead it was more akin to a very aggressive hug and quite frankly he felt foolish. Lestrade smirked and head butted him, sending him back a few steps.

The Man in Black took a deep breath, Lestrade slowly bounding towards him. He kept his stance low, charging once more, but rolling just as Lestrade swiped for him, sliding under his legs and standing behind him.

“You are fast.” Lestrade grunted as he turned to face him. An impressed smirk on his face as he cornered the man.

“I'm very grateful for that right now.” as he backed up, feeling a rock formation behind him. _Drat_.

Lestrade swiped, the Man in Black dodged. An idea popped into his head, remaining in place as Lestrade swung again, dodging once more but remaining in place once more.

Lestrade frowned slightly as he swiped once more, putting his weight into it. Missing, but the weight of the punch causing him to stumble - allowing The Man in Black to leap onto the rock and use the height to throw himself onto the back of Lestrade.

His arms clung around his neck, squeezing his arms just so to impede oxygen flow. Lestrade reached for him, but he was just out of grasp over his own broad shoulders. The Giant rerouted. Backing up against the rocks and slamming to The Man in Black onto them. He heard him groan but his grip remained tight. “You are strong.” 

“Are you mocking me?”

“No I mean it, comparatively.”

“I shall take that as a- aargh…. complement.” The Man in Black moaned as he was slammed against the rocks again. His arms unrelenting even so.

“You… you should.” Lestrade gasped, starting to feel the struggle as The Man in Black choked him. “You know, I haven't fought just one person in such a long time. I'm a bit unprepared.”

“Oh? Why should that make such a-” Lestrade thrashed against a rock again, as the Man winced out, “...differe...nce?”

“Well… I’m used to… fighting large groups… great big gangs…” The Man made a sound that he couldn't tell if it was from the latest jerk, or if he was just encouraging him to continue explaining --- which he did regardless. Lestrade felt the lack of oxygen bring him to his knees, as The Man in Black began slipping. It was less of an intentional choke and more of the lean figure trying to hold on for dear life before passing out himself. It was a matter of who would crack first. “You see mate...aargh…you use different moves for fighting a group of ‘em then yeh do…” Lestrade was on his hands and knees, fighting for consciousness. “...just..onahh…”

His final words trailed off as the brute collapsed to the ground.

* * *

 

The Man in Black rolled off the giant, his own head throbbing as he tried to gather himself. He made a motion to sit himself up but-

_No, too fast._

He couldn't waste too much time, he doubted Hope would linger too long if he felt his co-workers this dispensable. The Man squeezed his eyes shut, before slowly sitting up once more. He turned to his side, reaching of Lestrade’s wrist; there was still a pulse but he doubted he would be awaking anytime soon.

Gathering his breath, the Man in Black tore off down the path once again --- hoping his next challenge would be less physical than the others.

* * *

Decadent hunting boots retreaded the lingering foot prints and scuff marks along the rocky ground. Had he not been the Prince or have proven how his judgment in such things was to be unquestioned, perhaps his procession may have sniggered at the sight of him having an imaginary duel with an invisible foe.

Count Charles eyed the Prince curiously; scanning the ground for the information his superior had already begun applying to their plans.

Prince James grinned to himself, imagining the fight that went down and the brains that contributed to it. “There was,” he began, “a mighty duel. Can't you all see?”

“Masters, you can tell by the footwork.” Charles piped, “But how long ago.”

Prince James huffed in thought, “Oh, not that long ago. Maybe an hour. No death though, which is odd considering…” His words trailed off before looking back up, his tone authoritative once more. “The loser made their way back to Florin… and the winner followed this trail towards Guilder.”

“Your highness, shall we track them both?”

The Prince rolled his eyes and looked so disappointed in the question. “No, no, no, no… the loser is nothing! Only the Prince matters! Come on!”


	7. Chapter Six: Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end for english translations of The Man in Black's french lines.

_ You guessed wrong. _ ****  
**  
** **You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!**

**_-The Princess Bride,_ ** Directed by Rob Reiner

* * *

 

 

Prince John sat blindfolded on the blanket. He only knew of the food laid out because of Hope informing him. John had nearly bitten his finger when the man tried to feed him, playing off of his vulnerable state. Hope had grunted in pain before laughing. He was hungry, cold, damp and exhausted - but John Watson, Prince Consort of Florin and Former Captain of His Majesty’s Guard had pride. If he was to be killed, he wasn’t going to be resorted to a feeble thing eating from the palm of his captor. Hope seemed to pick up on this rather quickly, instead setting a plate and cup in front of him. “ They’re right there. If you can get it, help yourself. ” The binds, of course, hadn’t relented and he didn’t want to make a mess of himself due to hunger. Instead he just sat there indignantly. 

It was mid afternoon by the time Hope spied someone sprinting down the path, he was annoyed that it wasn’t Lestrade but he was far from disappointed. Adler and Lestrade were idiots, Hope - now he was the real mastermind and it was quite clear that The Man in Black was someone of great skill. Hope couldn’t wait to defeat him. “Oh ho, ho… our mystery man approaches.”

Once again, John felt his stomach lurch in disappointment. If The Man in Black prevailed then not only was he craftier than he presumed, but he also had defeated Lestrade. The body count of the man just seemed to grow. Eventually he heard footsteps, feeling Hope pull him close and - OH, there was the knife against his throat again. “So… it is down to you and I.” 

John’s heart raced slightly, realising with every step the blade pressed slightly harder to his throat. A realisation confirmed by Hope. “If you wish the Prince dead, then by all means keep moving forward.”

The footsteps stopped, and a deep french accented voice replied, John swore he could almost hear a wry smile in his voice. “Let me explain-”

“There’s nothing to explain.” Hope interrupted. “You are trying to steal what I've rightfully stolen.” There was almost a sense of scolding to it; as if The Man in Black was breaking some unspoken oath amongst devils. 

Honour amongst thieves - one he was breaking.

The footsteps began, slowly and carefully, “Peut-être pouvons-nous arriver à un arrangement?” He answered in his native tongue, John only understood two words. Arrive and Arrangement, he was trying to make a deal with Hope for him. _Why?_

Hope seemed to get the gist of his speech, because his grip on John tightened and he felt a prick at the base of his throat followed by a slow bead of blood trickling down. “There will be no arrangement, and you’re killing him.”

This seemed to get The Man’s attention as he came to an abrupt halt. “ ‘Zen it appears that we are at an impasse.” 

Hope sniffed. “It appears so. I am not foolish enough to think I can compete with you physically but you are in no means capable of taking me on mentally. Especially as you have continued to walk despite my obvious warnings.”

At this, The Man in Black laughed cruelly. “Oh, I see. So you’re a proper genius then?” The way he said it made it impossible to be taken complimentary. 

“Don’t look it do I?” Hope smirked. “Yet, with the exception of you - nobody else has ever given me a second glance until  _ after _ I get them. People just don’t think, do they.” There was a tired exasperation in his voice; as if he was shaken to his core by the lack of  _ thinking _ people did. As if all the years of being overlooked and under expected had twisted him. It clearly had. People paid attention to him now, but still only after he won. What a sorrowful life Hope must have lived, John admitted to himself, but it wasn’t enough for him to not wish for The Man in Black to do away with him like the others. At least Hope deserved it.

“In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits monsieur. For the Prince, winner take all.” 

John didn’t need to be able to see to know a devilish glint had taken the elderly man’s eye. “To the death?” There was a silence, but somehow he was told what he needed because a moment later he let out a laugh. “I accept!” The Man in Black moved forward, taking a seat opposite them as Hope put the knife down. John took a deep breath, feeling the immediate danger start to wash away. 

“Pour ze wine.” The Man in Black mused, rustling with some fabric before speaking again. “Smell this, but do not touch.”

John felt Hope shift, leaning forward to accept what The Man was holding. A sniff before settling back. “I smell nothing.”

The Man smirked. “What you do not smell is called Iocane Powder-”

* * *

“What?” Sherlock’s voice cut across the room, prompting Molly, Rosie and John to all jump before turning to look at him. “What was it?”

Rosie looked confused as John gave him a look, trying to understand what startled him so much before registering it as Molly looked back into the book for confirmation. “It’s called Iocane Powder?”

Sherlock’s face relaxed a bit, John gave him a look.  _ Calm down. _ “Oh… okay, I thought… nothing. Go on.”

“Uncle Sirlock?” Rosie asked in confusion. 

John tucked her under his arm, “Don’t worry love, he just misheard Molly. Probably because he likes to spend his nights screeching angrily on his violin.” He gave a teasing wink before casting another glance to Sherlock, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat before rising up. “Start again without me, I’m going to get Mrs. Hudson to make some tea.”

“Are you sure?” Molly asked, concern in her voice. 

Sherlock didn’t reply as he traipsed from the room, his voice echoing as he called for Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

The Man smirked. “What you do not smell is called Iocane Powder. It’s one of the deadliest toxins known to man. It’s undetectable, and even in it’s smallest form is is volatile.” John felt the blanket shift as The Man in Black picked up the two wine glasses and restored them a moment later. “Which cup has been poisoned. The Battle of Wits has begun.”

Hope snickered. “Oh, this is so simple. All I have to do is consider what I know of you. Are you the kind of man who would put the poison in his own goblet or the others. You see, I know how people think and I know how people think I think. Which means that this is child’s play.” 

John listened, The Man in Black did not reply - which Hope seemed to take as an invitation to continue talking. “Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only an idiot would take the one in front of him.. I am not an idiot, so I can’t choose the wine in front of you. However you are playing a game willingly with me, which means you must have counted on me being a bit more trickier than that. Which means I clearly cannot chose the wine in front of me.”

“You’ve made a choice then.”

“Hardly! Iocane comes from Australia, which is flooded with criminals. Criminals are used to having people not trust them, as you are not trusted by me so I can clearly not choose the goblet in front of you.” Hope blathered on.

The Man in Black was silent for a moment, before answering with a smile. “You have a curiously dizzying intellect.” he retorted, “You are just stalling now though.”

Hope slammed his fist on his thigh. “YOU’D LIKE THAT TO BE TRUE, WOULDN’T YOU?” Clearly being underestimated once more was beginning to get to him, perhaps his previous defeats by the man were taking a toll. “You’ve beaten my brute, which means you are unnaturally strong so you could have put the poison in your wine trusting on your strength to save you. That means I cannot choose yours - however, you also bested by blade. Which means you must have studied, which means you must understand mortality so why would you risk poisoning yourself? So naturally I cannot choose the wine you have given me!” 

The Man in Black’s voice was sharpened now. The game growing tiring, “You are trying to trick me into giving something away. Ça ne fonctionnera pas.” 

“BUT IT HAS WORKED. YOU’VE GIVEN EVERYTHING AWAY.” He bellowed, John recoiling slightly at the shouting next to him. 

“ _ Then make your choice!” _

“I WILL! ME FROM MY GLASS AND YOU FROM YOURS.”

It was silent, John felt helpless as the two Men drunk their wine. He wasn’t even sure whom he wished to win. Hope was a madman, he knew that. But he also knew the lengths of his cruelty and had, despite his intention to kill him, allotted him some dignity. The Man in Black seemed madder, he was willing to potentially kill himself just to kidnap him.  _ Why? _ A Ransom plot? Murder? He had also confirmed his hands were bloodstained by his defeat of Irene and Greg. 

“You guessed wrong, monsieur.”

John felt tense.

“Impossible. I know you sir. You have proven yourself in every test, we’ve given you. You forget that I can see unlike the other. I know your goals. You have let them blind you. I have won, you underestimated me! You have-”

Hope’s words fell flat before falling backwards. He was dead before he hit the ground. 

“Good god, he finally stopped talking.” John sighed in relief, possibly in poor taste. The Man in Black didn’t reply, but he did remove the blindfold. The first he he saw was the oddly angular jaw and the Crystalline eyes that shone through the mask. “To think, his was poisoned all along.”

“They were both poisoned, Voltre Altesse.” The Man in Black responded, hoisting John up to his feet abruptly. Sore and tired, John’s body complied without hesitation. “I ‘ave spent ze last three years developing an immunity to iocane powder.”

“Look, I don’t actually _ speak _ french so if you want me to be impressed it’d help if I could understand you.” John snipped back without second thought. 

The Man in Black looked amused by this, before answering. “Very well,  _ your highness. _ ” He retorted, before beginning to tug The Prince Consort along. 

John dug his heels in, trying to look back to Hope, “Wait… he has somethin- I need to…”

“No,” The Man in Black spoke, his voice cold and sharp. “What you need iz to move. We are not alone on zis path.”

John began to struggle. “No! He stole somethi-”

“AND IT WILL BE WORSE IF YOU DON’T MOVE NOW!” The Man in Black shouted before dragging John forcibly by the arm. 

The Prince could tell he was strong, but he also could tell that should he have been full strength - He could have overpowered him easily. Perhaps that was what made every bit of his following after him worse.  He turned to look back at Hope’s body. The last memento he had of Sherlock gone, likely to be stolen by whomever found the body first.

_ I’m sorry, Sherlock. _

* * *

 

 “Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson’s voice echoed through the hall, followed by an additional set of footsteps. Sherlock following, but clearly by force as Mrs. Hudson had him carry an extra food tray. “I hear we are all cooped up in here.” Her eyes fell on Rosie and she gave the girl a sad pout before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “How are you doing, ducks?”

Rosie shrugged. “I like that everyone is here.” she replied, tugging on her dad’s arm to highlight her point. “It was really lonely before.”

Mrs Hudson gave her a sad smile before scolding Sherlock for standing uselessly by the door. “Start serving, Sherlock. Goodness, what are we going to do with you.”

The detective rolled his eyes, but John noticed a slight pink flush to his ear as he obeyed.  _ Nutter _ . He thought fondly to himself watched Sherlock brush by Mrs Hudson, pouring the first cup of tea with precision and handing it to Rosie. “Don’t worry,” he said in a hushed tone that John wasn’t sure if he was suppose to hear, “I added the secret ingredient.”

Rosie grinned happily and John’s brow furrowed in curiosity as Sherlock (in a truly unusual act) handed him his own tea. “Ta… what’s this ingredient?” John asked hesitantly. He doubted Sherlock would add anything harmful to Rosie’s tea - he had different experiences with the over beverages. 

“Nothing to worry about.”

“It’s a  _ secret, _ Dad.” 

John was going to push the matter, but he caught the look between the two as Rosie eagerly sipped the tea. It was so pure and caring, he felt it in his heart. Sherlock and Rosie had special  _ just them _ things; just as he had special  _ just them  _ things with the both of them. He blamed his illness for the slight flip his stomach did as the man walked away with a teasing wink.

Molly gladly accepted a mug from Mrs. Hudson. “Thank you, would you like to stay? I think Rosie would like it.”

“Please?” The little girl piped up, reaching for Mrs Hudson with a well-perfected pout. The elderly woman stood no chance against it and agreed. 

“Besides, with two of you on the mend someone will have to help you.” Mrs. Hudson mused. “Where shall I sit?”

“Sherlock,” John spoke, already expecting a fight. “Will you go bring in the other chair?” The detective rolled his eyes, but before he could retort John beat him to it. “Because you know how important having everyone around is to Rosie after being alone in here for a few days.”

Sherlock almost looked offended by the statement, but he gave Rosie one glance before sighing. “Come Molly, we have to bring the other chair in.” He called out, leaving the room once more.

Molly shook her head. “I guess _Molly_ is helping to bring you a chair, Mrs Hudson... excuse me.” She rolled her eyes, but an amused grin still resided on her face.

* * *

 

Count Charles knelt down next to the brute as Prince James stood over him. “He’s still breathing, just knocked out it seems by asphyxiation.”

Prince James was hardly amused, this was becoming more and more drawn out than he liked it to be. A flicker of uncertainty hinted in his eyes as he looked the man over once before sniffing. “There will be great suffering in Guilder if he dies… MOVE OUT!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peut-être pouvons-nous arriver à un arrangement? - "Maybe we can come to an arrangement?"  
> Ça ne fonctionnera pas - "It will not work."  
> Voltre Altesse - "Your Highness."


	8. Chapter Seven: The Man in Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This chapter was the first bit of the story I wrote. I actually wrote it twice, once like this and another time with the roles reversed. I was having trouble deciding who should play whom - maybe as a bonus, I'll upload the alternate take after the story is done.

_“...what do you talk about?”_

**“We do not see all that much of each other.”**

_“Tender Couple.”_

**Buttercup could feel the upset coming. “We are always very honest with each other. Not everyone can say as much.”**

_“May I please tell you something, Highness? You’re very cold-”_

**“I’m not-”**

_“-very cold and very young, and if you live, I think you’ll turn to hoarfrost-”_

**_“Why do you pick at me?_ ** **I have come to terms with my life, and that is my affair - I am not cold, I swear, but I have decided certain things, it is best for me to ignore emotion; I have not been happy dealing with it.”**

 

****The Princess Bride,** William Goldman. _Part Five: The Announcement_ **

* * *

The Mountain range made their trek rough, but it was worsened by the unforgiving grip of The Man in Black’s on John’s arm. The prince could feel the ropes that bound him digging into his wrists as the pirate tugged him along. He considered fighting, but the lack of sleep and food ( _realising only now he hadn't been privy to either in over twenty-four hours_ ). John wanted nothing more than to stop being tossed around by one kidnapper or another, actually if he was wanting things he would love nothing more than to get a chance a a **fair** fight against his assailants. Hope had died at his feet, and The Man in Black must have somehow taken down the swordswoman and the brute --- which left only the The Man in Black for his frustrations. John could already imagine the satisfying feeling of smacking that angular jaw that stuck out from under the mask he wore. His wrists bound, but he could still feel his fists tighten in their restraints as he imagined knocking the smirk he had worn right off his face.

His thoughts were impeded by the feeling of being pushed down, landing roughly on a rock. Confused before he heard The Man in Black’s baritone cut through the silence life a knife. “Catch your breath.” he demanded, not even giving the dignity to look at him as he did.

Prince John didn't want to admit it to him, but he could use the minute. Well, if he was honest, he needed to be set free but The Man in Black would hardly comply with that request. “Look. I don’t know who you are or what you hope to gain; but I give you my word that if you set me free that you will get whatever you demand.” he tried to bargain. His voice was as steady as the exhaustion could allow.

The Man in Black's laugh was visible in his eye before it was audible, a smirk plain on his face as he turned toward the captive prince. “What value does the promise of a countryman hold, even while dressed like royalty? You are too funny, your highness.”

“A countryman?” John heard himself ask before he could stop himself, not wishing to his his captor any satisfaction in his knowledge of him. “How do yo-”

The Man in Black cut him off before he could finish. “Yes, it's clear on your skin. Even if you haven't had to labour in the sun for quite sometime, there are still tan lines around your collar and wrists. I also note that your hands are calloused, a sign of working with them. Physical Labour.” He paused, as if only realizing that he had reached out and took one of the bound hands into his own, highlighting his observations to John as if he didn’t already know them to be true. It was then that the prince realised that too. He cleared his throat, giving the pirate a lead to continue or slit this throat, or whatever it was he planned to do.

The Man in Black spoke, abruptly dropping his hand. Steel coating over his eyes once more. “As I said, you are a labourer. No matter what member of the royal family has taken their fancy with you. Your promise means nothing.”

John look him in the eye, fingers flexing and clenching as he did. “I was giving you a chance.” he spoke, “We could have parted amicably. Fine. No matter, because let me tell you this: it doesn't matter where you take me. I have come to know that there is no greater hunter than Prince James. He will find you.”

The Man in Black took this into regard, seeming to consider this before speaking. Almost challenging him with his next question. “Do you really think your dearest love will save you?”

“I never said he was that.” John spoke harshly and immediately. Realising how terrible it must have sounded, but he saw no reason to lie to the pirate. Besides, something told John that the man would likely know if he did. “He’s not, my ‘dearest love’ that is, and yes he will come for me. That I know.”

The Man in Black seemed to find amusement in that, amusement but also a bit of anger. _What business was it to he if he didn't love Prince James?_  “So, you admit that you do not love your fiancé…” He almost seemed to be examining him.  Reading him with a such razor sharp precision that he hadn't seen since - _No, John don't think of him now_.

“He knows I don't.” John retorted, as if that somehow made it alright; still unsure why he felt the need to justify his engagement to the man. It was no secret to the royal court that they had no love between them. Respect perhaps, Prince James was charming and intelligent. There was little reason for him to view him as otherwise. Perhaps his choice of betrothed still made little sense, but it had been to make a point and their terms understood. A man of the people, earn their goodwill and trust by governing with the aide of one who was once one of them. A people's prince. More of a consort, he had to keep reminding himself. One of the nurses would be chosen to sire an heir one day.

All of this was none of the concern of The Man in Black --- John couldn't fathom why he seemed to care so much. It was clear on his face, even on just the half that showed. Crystalline eyes shone through the fabric of his covering like daggers towards the Prince; his voice like a slice to the throat. “Or incapable of doing so…” he commented.

His words felt worse than any weapon, and he had once served in the king's army. How dare he? How dare this venomous creature dare to make such accusations about him? If any lingering of his initial comparison to Sherlock remained, it vanished that moment. This was no man; he was a monster. Exhaustion be damned, Prince John rose to his feet, arms bound but that did nothing to stifle how threatening he appeared. He grit his teeth as he made The Man in Black meet his gaze with pure fury. “Shut up. Just shut up! You don't know a damned thing about me.”

The Man in Black didn't even flinch, he just watched him with an unreadable expression. “Don't I? I could tell your origin by some skin colouring and your hands. Do you really think your _heart_ is any harder to deduce?”

_Deduce. Sherlock._ John felt his heart twist as he took a brave stride toward the man, getting just close enough to The Man in Black to see the medallion worn under his clothes. The Skull and the Sword, the insignia that bore on the flag of the _Revenge_. The ship of the Dread Pirate Roberts. The man who murdered Sherlock. Had his hands be unbound, he would have strangled him right there. “I have loved more than a monstrous killer like you could ever dream!” he shouted.

His voice echoed across the empty mountain range, surprising himself that he almost missed the hand of Roberts that came flying towards John’s face to strike him. Pausing only a inch away from his cheek. His eyes, blue and cold like the unforgiving storm at sea, unwavering from John as his jaw clenched. His voice, somehow managing to be even lower than before, whispering harshly. “That was a warning, monsieur. Where I come from, there is a penalty when a serf lies to a superior.”

Roberts didn't wait for John to respond before gripping his harshly by the arm and dragging him once more over the hillsides. Their rest was apparently over now.

* * *

It would have been a nice picnic spread, had there not been a dead body sprawled on it. The man, Jefferson Hope. Prince James nudged the man over with his boot, not really wanting to get himself dirty over a man already dead. No blood, no injury. _Poison_. He shot an almost intrigued look to Count Charles before both men’s eyes cast towards the food itself.  He could see the imprint of the mysterious fifth man on the ground opposite Hope. In the dirt discarded was an empty vial. Prince James withdrew his gloves and slid them on before picking it up. He brought it to his nose and took a slight sniff --- _nothing_. Yet the white lingering powder filled in the rest.  “Iocane powder.” he identified, passing the vial to Charles for inspection.

The Count turned the glass over in his hands, chuckling to himself in amusement of how the scene must have played out. Oh, if only he could have witnessed it.

Prince James studied the ground, oh it was all so obvious, yet none of his men could see it. _Stupid. Stupid._ “Can’t you all see? Count Charles, surely you can-- no? Oh, I’m disappointed. Look. Two sets of footprints, the prince is still alive. At least he was an hour or so ago.” He abruptly jumped to his feet, in a near fluid motion the Prince mounted his steed. “And if he is otherwise when I find him…. I shall be very _put out_.” He added darkly before giving the horse a swift kick and following the trail, leaving his men to hastily trail after him.  

* * *

The second time Roberts stopped their trek, it was three hours later. John saw it coming, and didn't fall asleep harshly as The Man in Black forced him to sit down again. However he was momentarily surprised when Roberts dropped to his knees in front of him and began untying the binds. “What in God's name are you doing?” John demanded, taken aback by this turn of events before mentally scolding himself for questioning why he was being freed.

Roberts didn't look up as slender gloved fingers loosened the rough ropes. “It's slowing us down. I want to reach the ship before night fall. Besides, it would be foolish to try to escape. You are in no fit state to fight, you also don't know the terrain like I do, should you attempt to flee.”

John didn't answer, not wanting to admit that he was likely correct. Only paying him any mind when he tossed the bind aside and began examining his wrists. Massaging the area around the veins to assist with restoring proper blood flow; from where he sat John could tell that no long term damage had been done and it seemed that the pirate agreed. Why did the pirate care if his hands were alright? Perhaps it was to ensure he got to demand his full value from his King. Not lose any gold over any damages he might have received.

“I know who you are.” The Prince muttered, pulling his wrists away. The thought of Sherlock’s killer touching him ( _even in a strictly medical sense)_ in a spot most intimate to him, made him sick.

This prompted The Man in Black’s full attentions, his head rising slowly up to meet his. Intrigue shone in his eyes as a slow smile curled over his lips. “Is that so?”

“The Dread Pirate Roberts. That's you, isn't it?” John replied. Not phrasing it as a question; but an accusation and daring the pirate to say otherwise.

Roberts rose to his feet and took a graceful little bow, his gaze never wavering from John as he did. “Indeed.” The smirk, that damn smirk, didn't leave his face. God, was he never not smiling that cold smile? John shuddered that the thought that this twisted grin was possibly the last thing Sherlock ever saw. “How may I be of service, your highness?” his voice mocking as he spoke.

The reality of it all crushed into John. This man killed him, he had killed Sherlock Holmes in cold blood and had been allowed to walk away without any punishment for it. That felt like a crime against nature. “Drop dead.” he spat.

Roberts clicked his tongue, an expression of mock offense colouring his face as that dark velvety voice of his rumbled. “Hardly complimentary, did they not teach you any manners when they plucked you from the countryside? Why do you hold such venom for me as opposed to the ones who stole you?”

_Because they had been simple criminals,_ John thought to himself, _you are inhuman_ . “You killed the man I-” The word he had been about to say caught in his throat. He had never been able to say it to Sherlock, he could still remember Sherlock begging him not to say it until he returned lest he wouldn't go. There was no way John was going to say those words that belonged to Sherlock to _his murderer_. “...You killed someone I cared for.”

Roberts definitely caught his pause, he could see his eyebrows shoot upward beneath his mask. Yet he didn't call him on it, instead he took a long sigh. It was as if the very discussion bored him. “Oh, I suppose that's possible,” he said with a uninterested drawl, “I've killed a lot of people.”

John should have been enraged, he should have snapped and yelled. He should have leaped forward and pummeled him to the ground for not even having the decency to pretend to care. Instead, chalking it up to exhaustion, all he could do was laugh spitefully. Roberts took a seat on a nearby rock, as if lounging, stretching and settling down. “So, who did I kill? Another Prince? As dull and uninteresting as this one?”

John could only glare, “No. He was of minor noble birth, but it wasn't anything more than a title his parents held. He was second born, so he didn't even inherit that. That didn't matter though because he was a great man. A madman, but amazing nonetheless...” His own life could be mocked by this man all he wanted, but he wouldn't let the Pirate diminish Sherlock. He could still perfectly envision every angle in his face, the cupid bow of his lips and how soft they had been when they had kissed, the messy curl that could never be tamed despite Lady Holmes’ efforts, the eyes he could stare into for hours and how magical they seemed in their shifting colours.

Roberts watched John carefully, as if processing his words carefully. The Prince shook himself from his thoughts, bringing the bite back into his demeanor. “Ahem, anyway - it was on the seas  that your ship attacked and everyone knows that the _Dread Pirate Roberts_ never takes prisoners.”

The pirate rolled his eyes coyly. “Oh well, I can't just let people think I've gone soft. Everyone would start groveling at my feet and begging and it would waste so much time that could be better allocated then listening to the desperate final pleas of countless.”

“You mock my pain?” John asked sharply.

“Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.” Roberts snapped. Silence filled the air around them. Neither daring to move an inch or say a word for a few moments. Eventually, Roberts rose to his feet and John expected to be pulled along harshly once more. However, he began to pace as if in thought. He didn't seem to acknowledge John's presence for a moment before he abruptly began talking again. “I think I remember this nobleman’s son of yours. What was this? Five years ago? Does it bother you to hear me speak of him?”

John clenched his fists, his posture straightened to a rigid soldier's stance. “I'm fine.”

Roberts gave a curt nod and continued. His voice sounded far away, as if reliving the moment I'm his mind “He died well. That should please you. No bribe attempts or blubbering. He simply said ‘please’ … _please, I need to live._ It was the ‘please’ that caught my memory. I asked him what was so for him here…”

John watched him carefully, for a moment he could hear Sherlock’s voice saying those words through Roberts’ tale. Trying to talk his way out, relying on his mind rather than his fists. If Roberts was waiting for John to speak, he wouldn't get his wish. Yet, John couldn't help but notice the softness that had taken his captor. As if the memory was close to his heart somehow.The pirate continued his story: “ _‘Love’_ , he had said, ‘ _possibly the proof of its existence. For I am a man so unlovable, but somehow I am loved by him.’_ ” John’s heart winced, heartbroken at how easy it was to imagine Sherlock saying and thinking these things. Once again, he was reminded of his pleas to not say it. To make it possible for him to go, to give them a chance at a proper life together when he returned. His eyes cast down, letting them wash over him as Roberts continued.

“He then proceeded to describe a handsome man with unwavering loyalty and good of heart --- I can only assume that he meant you.” Roberts’ voice turned cold and harsh, abruptly shaking John from the memories. Whatever softer moment had taken his captor had passed and there was no sign of it returning. “You should thank me for killing him before he had a chance to learn the truth about you.”

The sudden whiplash caused John to snap, _thank him_? The nerve. He looked him dead in the eye, for once Robert's’ gaze was not the coldest thing on the hillside. Not compared to the icy fury that took hold of him. “And what truth is that!? HMM?!”

“FAITHFULNESS.” Roberts spat, almost shaking in fury too. Perhaps he was tired of the Princes’ sob story, when it was clear he thought very poorly of him. John couldn't stand it. The worst part was that he was forced to see how it all must look. Forced to wonder if there was any truth to the Pirate's detestment of him. Roberts looked like he was about to snap as his voice rose in anger. “Your unwavering faithfulness. So tell me, John? In learning that your love was gone, did you get engaged that same hour or did you wait a week out of respect for the dead!?”

_That was enough!_ “YOU MOCKED ME ONCE, DON'T EVER DO IT AGAIN. I WAS DEVASTATED WHEN I HEARD SHERLOCK WAS KILLED. I - I DIED THAT DAY!”

Roberts opened his mouth to speak but before words could fall, his head turned around. As if hearing something in the distance. _Hooves. Many sets. James._ The world seemed to slow. He saw how close to the edge of a steep slope they had become. Intense fury towards the man in front of him spilled out. He had killed Sherlock  and then stood and mocked him for it. _No more_.

“And you can die too for all I care!” he shouted, giving Roberts a rough shove. The pirate wavered off balance before landing backward down the sharply inclined slope. Just as he plummeted over the hillside, John caught a glimpse of something that made his heart stop. The mask Roberts had worn had fallen off, and underneath he caught the sight of sharp cheekbones and dark messy curl. Any doubt that remained was soon expulsion as the cry of Roberts both warmed his heart and shook him to his core.

“ _As… you… wish_ …” the voice of Sherlock Holmes shouted into the valley.

“Oh my god, **Sherlock!** ” _What have I done?_ _I NEED TO GET TO HIM_ , was the last thought John had before he lost footing and began tumbling after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a good chance I won't be able to update this story for a week, I have a busy work week plus I am going away next weekend. If I can get a chapter done before I go, I'll post it. Otherwise, I'll be back to updating in a week.


	9. Chapter Eight: The Fire Swamp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back from my trip, apologies for the delay in updates due to it. I hope this longer chapter makes up for it.

**“What is it? What's the matter?”**  
“ _They're kissing again. Do we have to hear the kissing part?”_  
“ **Someday, you may not mind so much.”**  
“ _Skip on to the fire swamp. That sounded good.”_

**“Oh. You're sick, I'll humor you…”**

 

_\- The Princess Bride,_ **directed by Rob Reiner**

* * *

 

John hadn't intended to fall down after Sherlock into the valley; although in retrospect, the steep incline mixed with his own unsteady limbs from the previous adventures should have served as a good tip off to the possibility. So many questions swirled about in his head; in fact they were the only thing keeping him from passing out entirely from the exertion. Sherlock, naturally, reached the bottom first and landed with an audible grunt as John followed only moments after only a few inches away from where the formerly dead man lay. Pain ached throughout John’s body, but nothing measured to the bittersweet sting of learning that the man he had loved all these years had been alive the whole time. Naturally, he was overjoyed that the man had in fact not been murdered by Pirates on the seas --- but he was bloody furious about how long it took to let John know. Not to mention that John had only found out by mistake, and that Sherlock had been willing to keep the lie up even after reuniting. _Why would he do that?_ Why had he played and tormented John that way?

“John!?” Sherlock wheezed next to him, he couldn't move just yet but John could hear him wince as he moved over to him. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock Holmes leaning over him, having looked better but very much alive and very much concerned for John.  He didn't know if he wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both. He was overjoyed he was alive, he couldn't wait to kill him. “John, are you okay?! Speak to me.”

“You’re alive.”

“I am.”  John looked up into the sectoral eyes of Sherlock Holmes, he looked older - aged by the ordeals that he carried in his stature. His skin was more tanned, laboring under the sun as a likely culprit based on the deduction the man had made earlier - although, in retrospect, it was less a deduction and more a recollection. Sherlock had already known all of this. _God, how long was he planning to keep this secret from him?_  As if reading his mind, Sherlock looked slightly away from John’s gaze; still half on top of him as if he thought that moving would prompt John to escape or leave him once more. _You were the one who left, Sherlock._ “I know you have questions, I had been hoping to reach the ship before we got into all of this…”

“You mean, you hoped to successfully get away with kidnapping me before telling me you were alive.” It's manic, John’s voice. Uncertain if he was more amazed or furious. It's stated as a fact, not an inquiry.

One Sherlock looked a tad offended by. “I am not the criminal here. I was rescuing you - or so I thought. You didn’t seem too overjoyed at the prospect of being freed.”

“I knew what to expect from those three; I knew nothing of you!” John countered. Sherlock didn't answer, John’s eyes had become almost murderous. Sherlock had been the one lying all this time, letting him think he was dead, and **John** was somehow being scolded?! _Not bloody likely_.

“Why didn't you wait for me?” The question threw him off guard; John blinked as he realised that Sherlock was looking at him with razor sharp focus. For the first time since their reunion, his face was unguarded - such as it was the night he arrived to John’s hut before leaving. Much as it had been the night John had taken care of his concussion after falling off the roof of the barn. _Oh my god, had he loved him even then?_ It seemed very possible. “I went back for you, and I heard that you…” he looked as if the words pained him to even think of. “You told me you don’t love him; you wore my token --- yet, you held such little faith in me. You were promising to spend the rest of your life with _him_. You had previously promised such a thing to me; what am I supposed to think? What am I to think of the value of your word?”

Sherlock faked being dead, yet somehow he was the one mad at John. _This is ridiculous_ . “You were _dead_ , Sherlock. You were dead and I didn’t know to think any different! I told you everything up on that hilltop. You left me! You didn’t even die, you just didn’t come home and let me think otherwise. I was destroyed!”

* * *

Molly Hooper hadn’t realised her mistake until she looked up to take a sip of her tea. She pretended not to notice; but the room had grown uncomfortably still. Mrs Hudson glanced nervously to the boys as Rosie remained (hopefully) ignorant to it all. John had gripped the comforter tightly, avoiding the gaze of Sherlock; who had pulled his knees up to his chest and was watching John with guilt-ridden eyes.

She cleared her throat; everyone knew by now how **unpleasant** the real reunion of the two men had been (except for maybe Rosie) nobody needed to relive that again. This was her story; perhaps this was a time she could get away with artistic licensing and tweak the story a little bit more....

* * *

John hadn't intended to fall down after Sherlock into the valley; although in retrospect, the steep incline mixed with his own unsteady limbs from the previous adventures should have served as a good tip off to the possibility. So many questions swirled about in his head; in fact they were the only thing keeping him from passing out entirely from the exertion. Sherlock, naturally, reached the bottom first and landed with an audible grunt as John followed only moments after only a few inches away from where the formerly dead man lay. Pain ached throughout John’s body, but nothing measured to the bittersweet sting of learning that the man he had loved all these years had been alive the whole time. Naturally, he was overjoyed that the man had in fact not been murdered by Pirates on the seas --- but he was bloody furious about how long it took to let John know. Not to mention that John had only found out by mistake, and that Sherlock had been willing to keep the lie up even after reuniting. _Why would he do that?_ Why had he played and tormented John that way?

“John!?” Sherlock wheezed next to him, he couldn't move just yet but John could hear him wince as he moved over to him. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock Holmes leaning over him, having looked better but very much alive and very much concerned for John.  He didn't know if he wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both. He was overjoyed he was alive, he couldn't wait to kill him. “John, are you okay?! Speak to me.”

“You’re alive.”

“I am.” John looked up into the sectoral eyes of Sherlock Holmes, he looked older - aged by the ordeals that he carried in his stature. His skin was more tanned, laboring under the sun as a likely culprit based on the deduction the man had made earlier - although, in retrospect, it was less a deduction and more a recollection. Sherlock had already known all of this. _God, how long was he planning to keep this secret from him?_  As if reading his mind, Sherlock looked slightly away from John’s gaze; still half on top of him as if he thought that moving would prompt John to escape or leave him once more. _You were the one who left, Sherlock._ “I know you have questions, I had been hoping to reach the ship before we got into all of this…”

“You mean, you hoped to successfully get away with kidnapping me before telling me you were alive.” It's manic, John’s voice. Uncertain if he was more amazed or furious. It's stated as a fact, not an inquiry.

One Sherlock looked a tad offended by. “I am not the criminal here. I was rescuing you - or so I thought. You didn’t seem too overjoyed at the prospect of being freed.”

“I knew what to expect from those three; I knew nothing of you!” John countered.

“Why didn't you wait for me?” The question threw him off guard; John blinked as he realised that Sherlock was looking at him with razor sharp focus. For the first time since their reunion, his face was unguarded - such as it was the night he arrived to John’s hut before leaving. Much as it had been the night John had taken care of his concussion after falling off the roof of the barn. _Oh my god, had he loved him even then?_ It seemed very possible. “I went back for you, and I heard that you…” he looked as if the words pained him to even think of.

Only one reason came to John’s mind. “You were dead, Sherlock. You were dead and I didn’t know to think any different!”

“I didn’t mean to be gone for so long; John you must believe me- things were beyond my control. Yet, I hope this proves something very important to you.” Sherlock’s voice was serious, prompting John to meet his unwavering gaze.

“Prove what?”

Sherlock gave him a careful grin, as if afraid of letting it crack through his guarded face lest John not be receptive to it. On his face, it was apparent that he was afraid. Scared that he had been gone to long; had hurt him too deeply by vanishing.  Yet, in the middle of all of that; something grander was obvious and it took John by surprise. Even if John pushed him aside right now; even if he ran back to Prince James and told Sherlock to never speak to him again - he was just glad to finally be with him once more. Even if it was for a final time. All these years later, John realised that Sherlock loved him as much as he had the day he left; John also knew that all his anger aside that he felt the same.

Sherlock reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing something small. Silver & Sapphire, gleaming in the sunlight. The Brooch that Hope had stolen. The token of love. The promise to come back and live their lives together. John’s eyes widened; Sherlock had swiped it from the body (no wonder he hadn’t allowed John to go back to search him). “I hope that this proves to you that you never should doubt me. Not even death can stop me from coming back to you… unless…” Sherlock’s voice drifted momentarily, carefully considering the possibility he feared most of all. “...John, if you _want_ to be rid of it and-”

“You idiot.” The next thing Sherlock knew was that he was suddenly pushed onto his back with a strength neither of them knew John currently possessed in his worn and battered state; and was kissed fiercely. Sherlock was taken by surprise; faltering for a second before he parted his lips to let John in...

* * *

“Ahem!” Rosie cleared her throat, snuggling into a slightly blanched John Watson.

Molly blushed slightly. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Mrs Hudson, a clever grin on her face as she spoke up, drawing attention towards the chairs where she sat next to a detective who had become very interested in the contents of his phone suddenly. Perhaps, this one time, they could avoid the lecture for tuning out the room. No need to add any further embarrassment to them. “Forgot what, dearie?”

“Rosie has a rule.” Molly explained, a humourous look passing between herself and the patient.  “Now, if I may without further interruption...”

* * *

“Forgive me?” Sherlock gasped, catching his breath as John finally allowed him oxygen once more.

“Not until you put that damn thing back on me.”

“Gladly. I meant what I said all those years ago, John I will always come back for you. Even if I am delayed for awhile. Even in death, I will _always_ come back for you.”

“I’ll never doubt that again.”

“I hope to never give you need to. Now get off me, it’s going to get crushed otherwise.”

John felt all the pain he had been denying as he sat up off his returned betrothed, Sherlock winced slightly as he followed suit --- clearly he hadn’t been unaffected by the day's’ events. They had both looked better, covered in grass and mud. John still damp and sore from his bonds; Sherlock sweat tinged and exhausted from his duels and treks. Yet in that moment, they were each somehow the most beautiful thing the other had ever seen. Sherlock’s gloved hands fondled the silver brooch, a small smile at the sight of seeing it once again, before shifting closer to John.

The Prince Consort watched him carefully, unable to shake the muscle memory of five years ago. For a second, he was in his hut as the twilight shone through the dim windows. They were five years younger, Sherlock dressed in livery as John wore functionable attire. Now, Sherlock wore his black trekking gear as he played the part of royalty. So much had changed, yet his hands felt just as they had when they first pinned him. John’s heart raced the same way and his eyes held the same love. When Sherlock had died, John had died too. Now, fingers caressing the man’s face as the brooch was returned to it’s rightful space, John felt he could breathe once again.

He didn’t know this, as Sherlock wasn’t the type to pour such sentiment (it was a miracle he had been as forthcoming as he had been these last few moments), but he felt the same.

* * *

Prince James’ party stopped abruptly as the Prince suddenly tugged on the reins of his mare; Count Charles’ eyes glanced towards the future sovereign with only momentary confusion before his eyeline traced his. In the distance, still a few miles off, two figures could be seen. They were relatively motionless, minus a few turns and arm whalings. His betrothed, and the unknown captor. It was clear on the faces of his hunting party that he was thoroughly put out and how could anyone blame him?

In the eyes of his men, The Prince had much to worry about without having to cut across enemy country in search of his consort. His father’s failing health, standing on the precipice of a war about to break out any moment between the neighbouring countries, the fast approaching anniversary of Florin and his own wedding. Only Count Charles could recognise the feverish state just below all of that. The one that was thrilled by a hunt; one with bigger stakes. In a sense, this was a better chase than anything the Zoo of Death offered; real life stakes. Not just experiments. Perhaps it was unseemly in court to admit to such things, but Charles was a man of science. He appreciated the Princes’ thirst. Yet that wasn’t all he sensed. There was a lingering trace of fury, masked well by the appropriate fury to having to save a loved one from death. This one was different, darker. Secret. The face of a man whose plans had gone all wrong and was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Count Charles let out a sharp breath as one by one, the two figures abruptly vanished into the ravine below. “They’re gone, your highness.”

“Perhaps they saw us approach and panicked?” offered one of the guards.

Prince Charles smirked, one that was recognizable to all whom had ever gone on the hunt with him. It was the smirk he got when he was setting up the groundwork for the perfect trap. “Indeed, and it seems that panic had led them into great error - for unless I am wrong, and I am never wrong, our targets are heading straight for the fire swamp! Quickly now, make haste! I would prefer not to be wed to a charred corpse.”

* * *

John eventually untangled himself from the seemingly endless limbs of Sherlock, although not entirely out of a desire to - purely out of a necessity to do so. Standing up, _oh lord_ , that had not been a pleasant experience but he felt justified when he noticed his fiancé attempting to hide how stiff and sore he was becoming from this endeavour. John looked at Sherlock, wishing he had the time to patch them both up properly like when they had lived at Musgrave Hall. The two of the always getting into mischief of Sherlock’s design. On more than one occasion, John had made comment about how truly unfair it was that he often was injured just as much as he, when all he had wanted was to stop the lad from accidentally killing himself.

Much later, John would make a similar joke about how Sherlock had earned his comeuppance for inflicting chaos and injury onto John - but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. At the present moment, Sherlock’s biggest concerns were sore muscles, bruising, and a steadfast realisation that John would need proper warmth, clean and dry clothing, a meal and a bath after everything. Fortunately, he had dried a lot in the sun, but an air of dampness still clung to the man. John was more at risk for hypothermia and exhaustion than anything else. Sherlock wouldn’t reach a state surpassing this till later; but as that was unbeknownst to the both of them, it was the younger who was fussing about. For had either of them knew what was facing them, perhaps it might have been reversed if not mutual.

“As heroic a venture it was, I really wished you hadn’t stumbled down after me.” he mused, massaging his sore muscles in the spare moments allotted before their chase resumed. This remark earned a cocked eyebrow from the other man, prompting a hasty explanation. “I could easily scale this hill before the day ends, if you had remained at the top. However, you are hardly in any position to do extreme climbing - and any attempt to carry you would take more than a day. Which means, that we are more or less trapped here in the ravine.”

At that, Sherlock’s head cocked upwards, feeling the tremors of the ground once again. The Prince’s riding party was approaching. They weren’t directly overhead, still a bit off, but too close for comfort if he could feel their approach. “John, do you trust me?”

John immediately went wary, his mind instantly replaying the various times he had heard this exact phrase from the lad; and how many times it had all gone horribly wrong. It was truly a remarkable feat that Lord and Lady Holmes hadn’t released him from their service with the trouble he and their son got up to. Although, he suspected that Sherlock likely played a hand in that. One day, he would have to ask him about it - yet, that day was not at present. “God help me, but I do.”

“You aren’t going to like this.” Sherlock iterated, looking towards the ravine path with a solemn gaze. “Come on…” He held his hand out hesitantly, gone was the forceful pirate who had gripped him and dragged him along the hills and valleys, and replaced was the youthful lad he had fallen in love with so many summers ago. John didn’t reach for his hand, but instead clasped his wrist. Taking that as all the incentive he needed, Sherlock Holmes broke into a light run as John Watson followed him with equal daring.

As they ran, John began to pick up the familiar thundering of hooves, sensing what Sherlock had picked up prior. His betrothed Prince James, the man he had been banking and secretly praying to come find him, was now the man he was fleeing from. A part of John wished to ask why they merely couldn’t stop and reunite with the party. Surely, no crime had been committed by Sherlock’s hand. He had been the one to save him after all - yet, a part of him didn’t picture the Prince being favourable to the knowledge that John was intending to leave him weeks before their wedding. _Oh god, he was suppose to be getting married._ Their run was silent, an attempt to save oxygen and energy until they were able to rest again, which had allotted John the chance to silently begin realising just how troublesome a situation he was in.

It wasn’t just any engagement he planned to break, it was a royal one. In his mind, John could hear the echoes of the words Prince John had spoken when they first were engaged. _Refusal means death._ He had spent hours with the man, he had heard his strange comments before - ones that always just felt like morbid humour akin to Sherlock’s own. Perhaps that was what had made the comment have less of an edge, but thinking back, John couldn’t tell if the humour was true or if he had just imagined that part because he had wanted to believe it. _Calm down Watson, you are shaken. Nothing more._ In truth, nothing but his anxieties about the unpleasant discussion coming up (if, Sherlock even allowed such a conversation to occur, as he seemed very keen on reaching his boat before he had a chance to even formally break it off - something John would have to talk to him about) gave John reason to believe the Prince held any true malice or would lash out violently upon the news. _AND HE WOULD GET THE NEWS FROM HIM,_  he planned to make that very clear to Sherlock once they were out of the chase. John was a man of honour, he wasn’t going to vanish without a word.

It was another hour before Sherlock brought them to a stop, in the distance behind them, along the upper lip of the valley, Prince James’ party had come into sight. John expected Sherlock to panic, but was surprised once more by the madman when he let out a laugh. “Ha! It seems your pig betrothed is too late!” Sherlock looked victorious, but there was an edge to his joy as he braced himself for what lay ahead. They had outrun the Prince, but their next obstacle wasn’t any more pleasant. He squeezed John’s hand before laying his forefingers against his wrist. The accelerated, yet steadfast beat of John’s heart grounded him. Steeled him to the dangers ahead. “In just a few steps, we shall be within the safety of the fire swamp.” He declared, pressing a quick kiss to John’s temple before the man had a moment to process what he said before being tugged along towards a foreboding shadowy forest.

John’s eyes widened in horror as he let out a surprised yelp. “Are you mad?! We’ll never survive!”

“Nonsense John, you only say that because no one ever has.”

* * *

The Fire Swamp was a place of legend in both Guilder and Florin, it haunted the nightmares of every child who feared their parents sending them to such a nightmarish place if they misbehaved too greatly. Such sayings were commonplace in many households, wary threats when children toed bad behaviour. Even Lady Holmes had used such a phase on occasion when Sherlock and his brother had been younger - the prospect had unnerved Sherlock but he had remained stiff upper lipped on the subject to match the apathy his older brother had felt toward it.

While Fire Swamps exist all over the world. The Florin/Guilder ones held some unnatural characteristics. All of these were flooding in Sherlock’s mind as they tread through the massive vines, looming trees and muddy grounds. Neither man spoke, Sherlock holding onto John with one hand and his sword in the other. Broad strokes to clear their path as they attempted to navigate the area. It was John who eventually broke the silence, clearing his throat briefly before exhaling, “It's not that bad.”

Sherlock turned to look at him incredulously, they were in one of the most dangerous places in their immediate world and John was glancing around as if they were in a mildly amusing shop. John felt the judgemental gaze, rubbing the back of his neck as he quickly added, “I’m not saying that I’d want to build a summer home here, but the trees aren’t actually too bad to look at. They’d be lovely in fact in other circumstances.”

The younger man still looked at him like he was speaking in foreign tongues, but at least a familiar look of humour had settled into the mix as he gave him a smirk before continuing their walk. “And they called _me_ the strange one…” he mused in jest, prompting a laugh from the both of them. A much needed laugh, as the remaining tension dissipated fully as the grown men paused for a brief reprieve to have a fit of laughter in the Fire Swamp. Not the kind of place one would typically find humour, but here they were nonetheless. In the middle of impeding danger, laughing at ridiculous remarks before meeting each other’s eyes once more. “How have I lived five years without you?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, matching the smiling (genuine for the first time in a long time) face looking at John.

“I don’t think I was.” John answered, nothing accusatory to his words. “Living, that is.”

“Then we were the same.”

* * *

They walked in silence for a few more moments, but this time it was comfortable. Even in the treacherous terrain of the Fire Swamp, all either man could truly think of was how nice it was for the other to be a physical reality once more. It wasn’t until their first brush with the fire swamp’s dangers caught them by surprise that they were jostled back into the reality of the situation. They had been hearing popping sounds since entering, they had always been in the distance so it had been something they made note of but didn’t actively fret about without just cause to.

Yet, John couldn’t help but wonder if sometimes they sounded closer rather than further. He debated bringing this up, but he wasn’t fully confident in his senses at the moment. Now that the immediate dangers had passed, he was beginning to feel his adrenaline drop and his weariness take over once again. It was possible that his mind was playing tricks on him. This theory was quickly disproven, only moments later, the gurgling pop sounded right next to him which was quickly followed by a tower of flame shooting up next to him. John lept back, but not in time to pull his cloak out of the literal line of fire in time. “Argh!” he exclaimed as Sherlock ripped the inflamed material from his back with a rip.

John feverently patted himself off, checking for any sign of burn on his clothing or body, as Sherlock tossed the cloak onto the ground and stomped the fire into submission. He couldn’t help but look puzzlingly at the man before Sherlock explained between stomps. “There are many ignition sources in the swamp, we don’t want to be caught in an inferno due to an unattended flame.” Once he was satisfied that the signed material was no longer a threat, he turned his crystalline eyes towards John, clasping his upper arms and studying the man over for any sign of injury. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright, calm down. The cloak you pummelled got the worst of it. Slight singe on my sleeve but nothing to fret over.” John assured, as he felt his fiancé tense up. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t waver from John’s for moment, as if trying to see if he was lying. When satisfied, he released him and relaxed a bit. “I’m fine. That was quite an adventure wasn’t it?”

“You got that right. The Fire Swamp certainly does keep you on your toes.”

“Indeed, and soon it will all be a distant memory.”

Discarding the cloak, John took the blade from Sherlock to allow the man’s nerves to settle once again. It was only when he began slashing at the vines that John realised he hadn’t held a sword since his days on the kingsguard. It was also the first time he allowed himself to admit that he had missed the feeling of a sword in his hands. “Alright, so we have some time now… I have some questions.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Ask away.”

“Why did you lie about whom you were? Wait no, I mean. I get it a bit. You wanted to test me, right? No, get that look off your face - it’s alright. It’s a bit not good, but it’s fine. What I mean instead is, why did you claim to be whom you did? Was it just because that’s who I decided you were?”

Sherlock bit his lip momentarily, a sheepish grin and a devilish eye in stark contrast to each other on his face. “I did not lie, you named me as Roberts and that is who I am.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I do no such thing.”

John cut through a particularly thick vine, serving almost as a punctuation at his exasperation with this claim. “That’s impossible though, Roberts has been sailing the seas for twenty years and you’ve only been gone for five. You cannot be Roberts, no matter how many times you played pirate.”

“How did you know that?” Sherlock sounded almost mortified.

“Your mother, when she thought you dead, she would often call me in for tea and tell me stories about you.” John didn’t miss the uncomfortable shift the other man had at the mention of his mother.

 “I am often surprised by life’s little quirks.” Sherlock began to explain, ignoring the slight flush on his face at the idea of what tales his mother had felt necessary to share. John would have teased him a bit more if he hadn’t be more interested in this wild claim. “My ship _was_ attacked by _The Revenge_ , that part is true. Almost every part of the narrative you were told happened as such, except for the part about my death obviously...”

“Obviously.” John smirked to himself.

Sherlock ignored the sarcastic quip and continued. “What I told you on the hilltop was true too. The bit about the _please_ . It had intrigued Roberts, you see. In his silence, I must have talked for over forty minutes about you. Describing you in every means available to me, probably would still be there now if I hadn’t been interrupted by him. _Alright Sherlock, I’ve never had a valet. We can give it a try, but i'll most likely kill you in the morning._ For three years, this was what was said to me at the end of each day. _Goodnight Sherlock, good work. Sleep well, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning_. You see, as it so happened that during that time I had uncovered the first of life’s mysteries and had been waiting for a chance to reveal it in a way that wouldn’t cost my head. In the meantime, I was learning how to fence. Studying and learning anything the crew was willing to teach me and what I could gather from my own observations. I admit, perhaps I held off on approaching Roberts about his secret because we had grown to become friends. At the time, I still had no knowledge if I would ever return to you or be killed at dawn but as long as we were friends, I was alive which meant I still had a chance.”

John listened intently, unable to help a twinge of jealousy towards the pirate whom Sherlock was describing a close friendship with. It felt hypocritical as John had been set to marry another in belief that Sherlock was dead - could he really be angry for him had he had a brief affair while gone. He hadn’t realised how visible these thoughts were on his face because when Sherlock paused to take his sword back, he let out a snigger. “Oh relax John, it wasn’t like that.” he assured. “You see, Roberts is far from the kind of person I would feel an attraction to in that sense. You’ll understand in a moment. For years, this was the cycle. I’d spend my working hours training, doing whatever tasks Roberts asked of me, then I’d retire and be Roberts friend, as opposed to the valet I was during the day before going off to my own quarters. I’d keep Roberts’ secret and Roberts let me live. Friendship happened somewhere in between that. That was when that opportunity I had been waiting for came up, or rather, Roberts came to to me about it. You see, Roberts had grown so rich that he wanted to retire and was looking for a successor. But it couldn’t just be anyone, it had to be someone clever and so far nobody had solved the greatest test. That was until I revealed what I had known since that first month. You see, Roberts was actually a Roberta.”

John blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“John,” Sherlock explained with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I told you that there was nothing to worry about because Roberts is not whom I find myself attracted to. You see, The Dread Pirate Roberts was a woman.”

“You’re kidding!? I don’t understand, there are many famous female pirates that still haunt the seas - why did Roberts pretend to be otherwise?”

“I admit,” Sherlock relented, “that I was confused at first by that very notion before Roberts began to explain, and in doing so revealed a second mystery to me. You see, the woman I knew as Roberts wasn’t the original either. So she took me to his cabin, and told me her secret. _I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts_ , she said, _My name is Rosamund. I inherited the ship from the previous dread pirate Roberts, just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited it from was not the real dread pirate Roberts either. His name was named Murray. The real Robert's, a man named Doyle, has been retired fifteen years and living like a king in Patagonia."_

He continued, "Then Rosamund explained to me that it was the name that inspired the fear, it was the myth and the legend. Nobody would surrender to the Dread Pirate Sherlock, they’d laugh themselves to death. So after I accepted, we made for port and took on an entirely new crew. Rosamund, serving as my first mate under the name Mary, all the time calling _me_ Roberts. Once the crew was broken in and believed me Roberts, she left with her fortune to make a new life in peace and have been Roberts ever since. However, now that we are together again. I believe it is time for me to retire the name and hand it over to someone else. I’ve amassed enough of a fortune that would rival many a nobleman, if you don’t mind the downgrade from royalty.” There is a teasing wink in his eye that prompted John to give him a nudge of the elbow, still taking all of this in.

However, the nudge couldn’t have been even more poorly timed, as John unknowingly gave Sherlock that joval shove just as he bordered a hidden patch of Snow Sand. The Snow Sand was another horror that haunted the nightmares of children. It was heavy, it filled you up and dragged you down until there was no hope of escaping. Sherlock dropped his sword as he felt himself sink into the sand. His first instinct was to panic, thrash and flail but reason dictated otherwise. Instead, he shut his eyes and mouth, wishing he had still had the mask to block his nostrils, and spread his arms and legs into a star shape. It would slow his sink, but it wouldn’t stop it. His fate rested in the hands of John Watson now.

John didn’t falter for even a second after Sherlock vanished into the white sand. His fingers immediately reached for the dropped sword and hacked at a vine. Tying the loose end securely around his waist, he set the blade down and dove in after Sherlock. He scrunched his face closed, using a hand to cover his nose. He kept his body straight and narrow so he would plummet faster, reaching Sherlock before it was too late. His curls were the first thing he felt. Sherlock wanted to reach for the hand in his hair but narrowing his body would make him fall faster. John forced his arm through the heavy sand until their bodies crashed together. Quickly holding onto Sherlock, giving him a chance to wrap his limbs around John’s neck and waist. John released Sherlock and began the heavy work of hoisting himself back up the vine. The added weight made it hard. He felt his lungs screaming at him, begging him to release the air they held, but John reminded himself that for every ache he felt, Sherlock had already been feeling it for seconds prior. It felt hopeless, that they would die here in the Snow Sand after their short lived reunion. He felt the sand piling in his ears and nose as both arms were making broad swipes upwards before finally breaking through the top.

John gasped loudly  as he used his remaining strength to throw them over the the edge and pull them out. All he could see for a moment was sand as it poured out of every orifice, hair and fold of fabric. When he could finally see clearly, his eyes fell upon Sherlock who was coughing up sand harshly. He instinctively crawled over, patting him on the back in an upwards motion, much like one would burp a child after feeding, as any small semblance of assistance. He felt rather helpless as he watched the man eventually crumple from exhaustion and lack of oxygen. He laid on his side, catching his breath as John rested a hand on his hip. “Well that was tedious…” Sherlock muttered when his lungs finally began to calm down.

“I’m beginning to think that we aren’t meant to get out of here alive.” John mused softly, helping him sit up, brushing sand out of his hair.   

Sherlock took a breath, pulling himself together, before rising to his feet. Holding out a hand to John and pulling him to his feet. “Nonsense, we’ve already succeeded. After all, what are the three dangers of the Fire Swamp? There is the bursts of flame, which are foreshadowed by a popping sound. Easily avoidable now. The Snow Sand, which I gave of us the benefit of identifying so we can also avoid that in the future too.”

“And what about the R.O.U.S’?” John asked him warily. R.O.U.S, or Rodents of Unusual Size were described to be the size of wolves and as wild as a rabid animal. They were indeed Rodents, proven by the few times in history a stray one would wander out of the woods and die, only adding fuel to their mythical fire. Yet, nobody in recent history had ever truly seen one - which lead to speculation of exaggeration or misinformation about the cruel beasts rumoured to inhabit the Swamps.

Sherlock, for all his trepidation about entering the Swamps, laughed lightly. “Rodents of Unusual Size? I don't believe they actually exist.”

No sooner had the words left his lips before something giant, brown frenzied creature leaped the tree above, fangs bared as it tackled Sherlock onto the swamp floor. John leaped back, avoiding being dragged down with them, only to see a Rat the size of a Wolf and as wild as a rabid animal locked in a physical fight with Sherlock. It's jaws snapped as Sherlock tried to keep them pried open, while avoiding losing his hands in the process. He grunted as its claws dug into his flesh as he tried to throw it off of him.  

John wasn't going to sit by and watch this happen, instead he quickly looked around for the blade he had dropped before hurtling into the Snow Sand. He saw the gleam of steel and ran towards it briskly as he heard Sherlock yell in pain. His head turned in time to see the hellish creature dig it's fangs into Sherlock’s shoulder. Rage boiled in every bit of John’s being as he took the blade in hand. _What are you going to do though?_ Sherlock was locked in a death grip with the rodent, any strike he made towards the creature risked hurting him.

Sherlock winced, using his good elbow to bash into the creature's face. The rodent wailed, and Sherlock was able to throw it off of him just as a nearby fire trap began to pop. The creature landed just in time to get a nasty burn on its side. It's screams were violent and heart-wrenching. Sherlock shuffled backwards quickly, gripping his wounded shoulder tightly as John watched with blade raised. He had been ready to strike before the scream. _Please_ , John pleaded internally, _walk away now to nurse your wounds and we can go in peace._ The rodent paused for a moment, before snarling viciously once more, deciding that Sherlock was responsible it's wounds. John watched it bare it's fangs and ready itself to stroke before leaping into action. The blade gripped in his hands tightly as he plunged it into the rodent, once, twice, three times before it finally let out a fatal squeal and collapsed. Dead.

John waited only a second to see if it would stir once more before rushing over, the sword resting in the Rodents’ corpse, towards Sherlock. Prying his hands away from his wounded shoulder. “Shit. You don't think it was diseased do you?” John asked aloud, trying to gather a sense of the severity of the wound. It had punctured his skin, but hadn't broken the through the otherside. Sherlock was able to move it enough to erase the possibility of it reaching the bone.

“I think we are safe, I didn't see any sign of it. Just a nasty a bite is all. I wish we had kept that cloak of yours now though, it would have been a good makeshift sling.” Sherlock mused.

John exhaled, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's. For a moment the two of them just sat and breathed. The sooner they got out of this damn swamp, the closer to his ship they would be and hopefully there they could patch up as they needed. “How many more times is the world going to try to part us?”

“If I have any say in it,” His fiancé began, groaning as he rolled his shoulder to refrain it from going numb, “that is the last time. We have to near the end now, I can see some light starting crack through the trees.” John pressed his lips to his forehead before twisting his face. Sherlock smirked and let out a chuckle. “Snow Sand?”

“Yeah, I don't recommend it.”

Taking a deep breath, John helped Sherlock rise to his feet once more. Cautiously, they scanned the trees above for anymore sneak attacks. Once satisfied, Sherlock pulled his blade free from the corpse. John instinctively guided him from behind, helping him steady himself as they ducked and stepped over roots and vines. Eventually, the trees began to thin. Pools of Snow Sand became scarce and the popping sounds of the fire traps became dull and eventually nonexistent. Eventually John felt himself able to relax as finally the Fire Swamp became exactly what Sherlock had claimed it would be - a memory. “We did it.”

Sherlock didn't look as relieved as as John felt, but his words tried to hide this. For him, he wasn't home free till they were away at sea once more.  “Now, was that so terrible?”

“Shut up.” John smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes as Sherlock’s wariness began to catch. It didn't take long for the reason for their paranoia to manifest. _Damn it._

From behind the trees, the royal guard came into view, armed and surrounding them. A couple of horses came into view, Count Charles and Prince James rode into view. The Prince held a face of victory as he bore his gaze into Sherlock with a twisted venom. “SURRENDER!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shall be back to normal uploading for the week, but I will be preoccupied between the 15th-19th due to family events happening. So be wary of any delays during this time.


	10. Chapter Nine: The Zoo of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to finish this one so soon, but it wasn't a very long one so that made it easier. I don't know if the next Chapter will be done before the I am off for a few days for family events, but I shall certainly try. 
> 
> Things have to get worse before they can get better; John's grooms meet face to face which means that things are about to get interesting.

_"We are both men of action," Westley replied. "Lies do not become us."_

 

**"Well spoken," said the Count.**

 

_The Princess Bride,_ by William Goldman; **Part Five: The Announcement**

* * *

 

“SURRENDER!”

His fiancé, one armed as his shoulder was still badly wounded, pulled his sword out as he defensively stood in front of John. “You mean you surrender to me?”  he quipped back as his betrothed smirked from his horse down at them. “Very well, I accept.”

“I give you full marks for bravery. Don't make yourself a fool.” The Prince tutted, before turning his eyes to his John. Watching him carefully, prompting the man to realise for the first time that he was currently trapped in a stalemate between his fiancé and his betrothed. Only John Hamish Watson would find himself in such a situation. John offered him a sympathetic look, not wanting to lay everything out at this exact moment while tension and emotions were running high. He knew his fiancé, and he knew often times his betrothed had reminded John of him. It would likely get explosive if it wasn't diffused soon.

Sherlock remained oblivious to the conflicts arising in John behind him, how could he have known the peace John had made with becoming the future consort of Florin? While the idea of wedding the Prince instead of Sherlock had been mixed, Sherlock couldn't understand the level of loyalty he had developed for their kingdom. How he had intended to use his future power to help and guide their people to a better future? John had been acting in a public role for so long, it wasn't easy to just pick up and drop everything. He felt responsible for the people somehow; even if they were only his concern out of impeding wedlock.

All of this remained unknown to Sherlock, who snarled. Teeth bared much like the Rodent in the swamp; not helping his case by looking the role of the enraged kidnapper. “ Ah, but how will you capture us? We know the secrets of the fire swamp. We can live there quite happily for some time, so whenever you feel like dying, feel free to visit.”

John whispered in harsh breath, low enough for only Sherlock to hear. “Do not anger him, he rivals you for temper when fuelled enough. He thinks you to be a kidnapper still!” He could feel his fiancé  tense at John’s attempts to sympathise with the Prince. Was it jealousy that angered him so? What made him bait him instead of discuss rationally. Prince James was his betrothed, yet he had shown more cordial behaviour towards his actual captors. The ones who had actually planned to kill him. “You need not be so aggressive.”

His fiancé looked as if he wanted to tell him something but he was cut off by his betrothed. “I ask you once again, surrender! It doesn't have to be disadvantageous to you. We can come to an arrangement, my betrothed is most important to our people.”

He looked venomous at his words. “Not going to happen!” Sherlock bellowed, hand gripping tighter on his blade.

“Don't be an idiot, you are better than this.” The Prince looked as if he was reaching the end of his patience, pulling his own blade from his sheath, “For the last time, SURRENDER.”

“DEATH FIRST!”

The world moved in slow motion, John watched as both men raised their swords to engage. Oh god, there was no way that Sherlock could win this. They were outnumbered. Even if his fiancé managed to strike his betrothed, the guards would take him out before they could escape. Furthermore, killing his betrothed felt needless. He might be cold at times, but he wasn’t a monster. Prince James had given him a purpose when he was aimless and lost. He owed him. Oh god, _he owed him_. Additionally, all this course of action would provide would be two men dead, and John powerless and penniless. He had no real title, sure he could go back to the guard but could he really after all he had done? Perhaps a happily ever after wasn't really possible. Perhaps the Fire Swamp had been trying to warn them of this. John knew what he had to do, and he hated it. “DO YOU PROMISE NOT TO HURT HIM?!”

“What was that?” his betrothed asked, lowering his blade.

“What was that?” his fiancé echoed, turning back towards him to do the same.

John stepped forward, passing Sherlock so he stood between the dueling men. “If we surrender, and I return with you - swear to me that no harm will come to this man!” His voice was razor sharp and direct, prompting a look of surprise on the Prince's face that reminded him of their engagement.

Prince James eyed them carefully, before his face seemed to register something. “Very well. I swear on the soon-to-be-grave of my father that I will not harm this man.”

John didn't miss a beat. “He is a sailor, promise me you’ll return him to his ship!”

“Of course.”The Count agreed as Prince James gave a signal to his men before turning to the count and muttering something privately.

Sherlock’s face was unreadable, a complex mix of so many micro emotions as he kept his face intentionally steeled. John knew better than to take the coldness at face value; after everything of course Sherlock would be upset but he _had_ to understand his actions, didn't he? “John, what are you doing?” he asked, voice holding onto a final hope that there was some greater plan in motion.

He couldn’t hide the sadness in his face, breaking the last bit of faith Sherlock held in him. _God, how does this look?_ He came back to find John engaged to another, chased him down, risking his life countless times to have John re-promise himself to him - only to turn around and leave him once more. _You have to make him understand, you have to make it clear how much you love him. Let him know you hate this._ “I thought you were dead once Sherlock, and it almost destroyed me. I could not bear it if you died again, not when I could save you.”

Sherlock looked like he understood but also like his strongly disagreed with his logic, “But John you don’t understa-” His words were cut short as a guard brushed over and began to drag John away. Sherlock lunged forward, but was restrained. _No, no, no! John, you idiot! You foolish man!_ He thought to himself, his name on his lips as he cried out. John looked back, struggling, demanding a chance to say goodbye before he was pulled up onto The Prince’s horse. “JOHN!”

Even in the distance, John and Prince James could hear the agony in his voice as he struggled until the guards closed in around him and the horse vanished from sight. Count Charles watched the scene play out with an serene amusement on his face, in his head, the Prince’s hushed orders echoed:

 

_Once we are out of sight, take him back to Florin and bring him to the Zoo of Death._

**_I almost believed you when you swore._ **

_I spoke truth; I never lie, I said_ **_I_ ** _would not hurt him. But I never for a moment said he would not suffer pain. You will do the actual tormenting; I will only spectate._  

 

Sherlock shuffled in defeat over towards The Count, arms held tightly by the kingsmen. His sword confiscated and his shoulder in blistering pain from the struggles. Count Charles gave him a charming smile. “Come sir, let us bring you back to your ship.”

A scoff left Sherlock, arching an eyebrow at his captor. “ _Please!_ We are men of action, _sir_. Lies do not become us.” He wasn’t an idiot; he knew what was really happening. Even though his heart was aching just as much as his body - Sherlock wasn’t blinded like John was. John was in danger by the man he trusted, and Sherlock wasn’t going to be reunited with his pirate crew anytime soon.

The Count seemed to find further amusement from his retort, letting out a chuckle. The type one would use after being told a joke at a luncheon. His spectacles drooped down to his nose, as he leaned in closer to the man. Too close for Sherlock’s comfort, tucking his right hand under his chin to force him to look up at him. . “Well spoken, sir.” he whispered, his eyes already eagerly examining his future test subject. He couldn’t wait to dissect him piece by piece.

Sherlock was not fond of physicality he didn’t initiate; while he could deal with the rough grip of the guards - he despised the almost intimate way that The Count looked at and touched him. Sherlock pulled his head away, causing Count Charles’ hand to retreat slightly. Holding itself up, fingers spread as if he were trying to tame a wild animal. That was when Sherlock saw it, his gloved hand. Everything prim and proper, the fine leather riding gloves that held the embossing of a family crest on the back of the palm before spreading out into one, two, three, four, five, _six_ _fingers_. Coincidences were not something he believed in, the universe was rarely that lazy. A sly grin spread across his face, remembering the words of the french woman, Irene Adler:

 

_...My wife was killed by a six fingered man..._

_...when next we meet, I will not lose. I will look him in the eye and tell  him:_ **_Hello, my name is Irene Adler. You killed my wife, prepare to die_ ** _; just before I stab him through the heart with his own blade…_

 

The Universe was rarely so lazy.

“You have six fingers on your right hand…” Sherlock commented, his tone knowing and sly. His eyes glistened mockingly, every bit of his body language screaming _I know._ Count Charles immediately noticed his shift in demeanour. His body stiffening as he pulled himself back upright. Serene grin turning into a cold stare. “...I know a woman who is looking for you….”

The Count’s eyes flashed violently, before withdrawing his sword. Whacking Sherlock on the head with the base of the handle, knocking him out cold.

* * *

_Think._

_What do you remember?_

 

He remembered the channel, stalking the little boat into the night. Watching from afar as The Prince tossed himself over the side of it and attempting to swim away before stirring the eels.  He remembered the climb, the Cliffs of Insanity. He remembered how his muscles ached, how his lungs screamed as he refused to rest. Stopping meant losing, and Sherlock refused to lose him. The duel, the frenchwoman - she was important to this somehow. The wrestle, the giant he left face first in the dirt. He supposed he felt a bit bad about that, but there was nothing he could realistically do. Time was of the essence and quite frankly, he wasn’t _that_ strong. The small man, the one who claimed to be a _proper genius_ \- only to miss the possibility that perhaps he wouldn't be affected by such a toxin? He remembered John, sweet angry John shouting to high heavens about how much he had loved him. Furious at the thought he was with Sherlock’s killer and attempting to get even by killing Sherlock himself.

Sherlock could remember the fight, the heated beginnings of a classic John and Sherlock argument before the ice melted away and the two reunited once more. The Swamp, explaining what had happened to him and where he had been all these years. Then he remembered heartbreak, John taking the choice from him. Deciding Sherlock should be alive and alone over dead together. John, he meant well and Sherlock can recognise that - but didn’t he know that either option felt like death to him either way? He had risked his life, given everything he had for John just to lose him even so. That was a fate worse than death.

 

_Then the damn frenchwoman, she came into this again somehow. God why can’t you remember? Why does your headache when you try to remember past that? What was it that she had said?_

_‘Hello, my name is Irene Adler. You killed my wife, prepare to die_ ’

 

The Count! The Prince! John! Oh things were worse than he could have imagined, not only was John in danger but there was a cruel murderer whispering in the ears of the man John should be fearing the most. He had confronted him, sort of. That’s where everything is blurry. He remembered being manhandled, someplace dark and cold. Hands. Hands touching him and he wanted to fight and scream but he couldn’t.

Something was _still_ touching him; Sherlock could feel it, or rather numerous things were touching him. Despite the blistering pain in his head, he forced his eyes open. The room he was in wasn’t very bright but even the small amount of light that shone through stung his eyes. Wincing audibly, he attempted to lift his head up only to find he couldn't. The slight shifting his face could make was enough to to verify that his head was strapped into some form of brace. It felt as if two suction cups were on either side of his forehead, and those weren’t the only places. His arms, his legs, his chest. All strapped down and from straining his eyes to look far enough down, all seemed to be covered in the menacing cups.

This was more than a bit not good.

Yet, in spite of being strapped down in what appeared to be a dark dungeon of sorts with no idea of where he was, how long he had been there, if he was alone, or what was going to happen to him - Sherlock felt rather fine. Too fine. That was what confused him. He couldn’t feel any of his injuries minus his shoulder, which had received the brunt of the damage; but even that didn’t hurt as much as it had before. Almost as if he had been treated while unconscious. _Why would someone do that?_

Sherlock’s eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, in the shadows he could make out that the suction cups all seemed to have a lead that was connected to a monstrous contraption that he couldn’t fully see, but didn’t need to see to know it wasn’t good. Yet, what his eyes lacked was made up in hearing as he heard the shuffling of footsteps and the sound of something being carted with them. Slowly from the darkness, a pasty little man with piercing blue eyes and a chubby gait toddled over to him. His cart, more akin to a wheelbarrow, rested by his side as he pulled out a solution and rag, gently beginning to dab his wounded shoulder.

“Where am I?” Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse from being without water for _who knew how long_?

The Man gave him a devilish grin, finding twisted amusement in his loss of perception. “Hoo, hoo - the Zoo of Death. Don't even think about trying to escape, the restraints can hold down beasts five times your size with eight times your strength. I wouldn’t dream of being rescued, either. The only people who know of this place are myself, The Count and his Highness.” he listed off, as if he was reading the instructions for a medicine instead of condemning him for the remainder of his life.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, at least he did as much as the suction cups pulling on his facial muscles allowed, “So I am here till I die then? How unoriginal.” he mused dryly.

The Man snorted, “Till they kill you, yes.” His eyes held an enthusiastic gleam at the idea.

“Then why waste time healing me? A bit counterproductive.”

“That’s the rule with any new specimen.” he explained, giving Sherlock a smirk at the notion of him being nothing more than an experiment. “We like our subjects to be at prime health before breaking them, gives more accurate results that way.”

He sighed deeply. “So I am to be tortured then?” The Man nodded, and Sherlock straightened himself out as much as possible. “I can cope with torture.” At this, the man laughed. Sherlock frowned, “Don’t believe me?”

He had to wait a moment before he received a response, the man caught his breath from his laughter. Clearly, this was something he had heard before. “You survived the Fire Swamp, I hear. I’ll give you that, that’s no easy feat. You must be very brave, Mr. Holmes, but nobody can withstand the Machine.” Sherlock frowned, as menacing as he made the _Machine_ sound - something else caught his attention. _Mr Holmes_ , they knew who he was.

No, this was more than a bit not good indeed.

* * *

_You are a coward and an idiot._ The phrase ran on a loop inside Prince John’s mind as he wandered about the castle halls. If he had thought himself sad before, this was down right unbearably depressing. At least before, he had thought there was no way for him to have Sherlock again. He had thought him dead, taken from him by fate and not by any choice of his own. It was easy to feel blameless. Yet, even then he had laid awake at night, wondering if he could have done something. Stopped him from going, gone with him. Gone in his place. Anything could have changed the tragic outcome, but he didn’t allow himself to think like that because what was done was done and it couldn't be reversed.

Unlike now, he had held Sherlock in his arms once more. Seen him, felt him with his own eyes and hands. He was alive and John _chose_ this separation. At the moment, it had seemed to be what was right. It had been selfish of him, he knew that even then, but he had just had Sherlock back - he couldn’t stand to see his life taken from him once more. At least, he was alive. He was free, on his ship and likely sailing far away from John. He deserved it, John saw the look on his face when he had surrendered.

Sherlock had been so ready to die for him, ready to face the end with John at his side. The stupid part was, if that had been their only option, John would have done the same; but how could he justify having Sherlock killed because of him when there was something he could do about it?

Was that really it? Had he really acted out of selflessness? Or perhaps had the Prince Consort been afraid himself? _Coward._ His palm pressed against the brooch, slightly dinged a bit from their adventure. Bits of Snow Sand caught in it’s tiny nooks and crannies. He didn’t deserve it now. Sherlock should have ripped it from his clothes the moment he surrendered.

But that wasn’t Sherlock’s nature. He may not have his genius, but John was exceptionally gifted when it came to knowledge about Sherlock Holmes. John would marry, Sherlock would watch the festivities from afar and then sail away from his crew. He would barricade himself back up, focus on his _work_ . Piracy in this case. He’d always love John, but he would steel himself. God, he didn’t deserve that. _What have you done?_

He was so lost in his thoughts, that he didn’t notice that Prince James and Count Charles had spotted him in passing, watching him from the end of the hall. Prince James, took note of his demeanour instantly. His mind working, processing everything. Count Charles shot him a look, eyebrow cocked curiously. The Prince sighed nonchalantly, “He’s been like that since the Fire Swamp. Must be my father’s failing health that upsets him so…” his voice was clear, not loud enough to count as shouting but enough so anyone nearby could hear.

“Of course, your highness.” Count Charles agreed, eyes gleaming at his sovereign. Wondering what his wondrous mind was concocting next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've had quite a few chapters without interruptions from Plot B, they will be coming in a bit more as we reach the final six chapters.  
> I am also toying with the idea of a companion piece for this story when it's complete, but we shall see. If I go through with it, I will definitely put a proper announcement in an upcoming chapter.
> 
> I should also warn people who are not familiar with The Princess Bride that there will be some implied violent torture in upcoming chapters. Nothing graphic will be depicted, but watch the tags.


	11. Chapter Ten: Prince John's Melancholy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, this chapter was giving me a bit of trouble. I hope it was worth the wait for everyone. There is a Baker Street interlude in this chapter, I'm wondering how those parts are going over with everyone? I also had trouble trying to make it clear whom a certain character was suppose to be played by - I'm still not entirely sure it came across. If not, I'll have it written at the end notes. I hope it came across, if not - well, this is how we learn. 
> 
> Shoutout to Mondy for being the unofficial proofreader of this hot mess.
> 
> Also you haven't seen the deleted scenes from HIS LAST VOW, then Sherlock and Magnussen's scene might feel strange to you without the context. I recommend checking it out on YouTube. It's all kinds of creepy and unsettling.

**_“Hold it, hold it, Grandpa. Y-you read that wrong. She doesn't marry Humperdinck, she married Westley. I'm just sure of it. After all that Westley did for her, if she didn't marry him, it wouldn't be fair.”_ ** ****_  
_  
_“Well, who says life is fair? Where is that written? Life isn't always fair.”_

 

_\- The Princess Bride,_ directed by Rob Reiner

 

* * *

 

It was a week before the wedding when King James passed away in the night, the news awoke The Prince Consort from his sleep to be brought to the side Prince James and his stepmother, Queen Janine. Watching the Prince's face, twist with a controlled emotional depth he hadn't seen him express before took John by surprise. He had never considered the Prince truly heartless, but he never imagined him to be so affected by the loss of his father - mostly because he seemed to pay little care to him for as long as he had known him. _Still_ , he supposed, _he was his father. Of course it would affect him._  John couldn't help but be reminded of his own grief years prior; how the loss of Sherlock had shook him to his core. While he had lost all rights to feel bad for himself, he had made his choice at the Fire Swamp, John could still use his experiences to help his new family-in-law through this dark period.

Prince James sat in long silence, his fiancé standing by and ready to help him at a moment's notice. While the Prince knew his woes didn't stem entirely from mourning; there was something undeniably charming about his husband-to-be’s unwavering loyalty. As the heir, Prince James had numerous things to attend to, so whenever he was pulled from John’s side - he could be found in the company of Queen Janine. He knew first hand her loss, and she was heartbroken over her husband; even if she conceded that it was better this way, as his suffering was at an end now. The days passed, slowly and all too fast, and before John knew it the day Florin’s 500th anniversary was upon him and he was no longer just the Prince's fiancé but his husband and Consort.

The ceremony brief, as festivities in the shadow of the king’s death felt improper, but what promised to be anything but was the royal presentation.  The square flooded with life, activity from every corner as everyone eagerly awaited for their new sovereign and his husband to appear from the parapets. Emboldened by the success of last time, Prince Jonathan stood inside the castle halls, awaiting to be allowed to meet the people once more as the Royal Consort. It was pointless for him to pretend to be anything other than slightly nervous --- but fear had always been what steeled him and urged him on. The sounds of cheer and laughter faded as the horn salute began cascading in the air, drawing the attention of the onlooking crowd to the parapets where King James II now stood in all his regal glory. He didn’t need to see him to know it was true. _Into battle_ , John thought to himself as a hush lulled over the crowd.

Out on the parapets, King James II held a hand out to the crowds below, lowering it once he had the focus of onlookers. “My father's final words were:---”

* * *

“STOP!”

Eyes glanced around the different corners of their room as both Rosie Watson and Sherlock Holmes pulled themselves forward in outrage. John jumped as his daughter ripped herself from where she had been nestled against him and feared she was actually going to launch herself at Molly. Mrs Hudson could be heard scolding Sherlock for nearly giving her a heart attack. Neither onlooker could distinguish which one had actually shouted; but from the looks on their faces it felt safe to say that both of them were equally as guilty.

Molly had nearly dropped the book in fright, pulled away from the grasp of an upset and sick Rosie, who looked as if she had faced the greatest betrayal in her life. “YOU READ THAT WRONG.” she insisted, “you had to have.”

“No, that’s how the story goes Rosie, but it’s okay beca-” Molly wasn’t able to get another word out as Rosie cried out an resounding denial.

“No. It. Is. Not. Okay!” Rosie was adamant.

John looked apologetically to her, attempting to coax his daughter back to where she had been resting prior to the outburst. “My apologies, Molly. It must be the fever- Rosamund Watson calm down and apologies for shouting, please.”

This time it wasn't Rosie who spoke but Sherlock, who held an expression that could only be described as reminding John of a particularly venomous scorpion he had once encountered in the deserts. “Apologise for _what_? She isn't the one who should be apologizing!”

“What the bloody hell are you on about?!” John exclaimed, as Rosie gave him a serious look of allegiance. “You are not helping! I'm trying to calm her not rile her up more!”

Mrs Hudson tutted sympathetically, “Come now dearie, nothing to get upset about. Let's tuck back in with your dad…” She rose from her chair to attempt to persuade the young Watson back into her space on Sherlock’s now very rumpled bed.

“No! Daddy is who I'm mad at! How could you do that! How could you marry the Prince? He is so mean!! What about Sherlock? He loves you and you let him get thrown into _ZOO OF DEATH!_ ” She was in near-hysterics, and a glance across the room showed that Sherlock had turned away into what looked like the beginning to a sulk of epic proportions.

John collapsed against the headboard as he registered what was going on. _Unbelievable_. “Sweetheart, you're getting confused. That's not real, that's the story. Sherlock isn't in danger, look see he is pouting over there! Again, thanks for the help, Sherlock...”

Mrs Hudson looked between them, not seemingly confused by the by the reaction of the detective. John couldn't understand why she seemed to glance pityingly between them.

Molly balked, she couldn't believe what she was witnessing. This was unlike Rosie to react this way. As the girl turned against her father, Molly reached out and pressed her palm against Rosie’s forehead. “She's getting warm again, it might be the fever. Maybe now is a good time to stop, I didn't mean to get her so excited John. ” Perhaps she should have chosen other names. Normally she would have suggested so originally but it had been to make Rosie happy after being so blue. She would have agreed to anything, nearly.

Rosie frowned, but was getting exhausted from her surge of emotion. _Being sick took a lot out of you._ However, she wasn't ready to go back to the traitor just yet. Her eyes stung as everyone didn't see the obvious betrayal, her stomach churned along with it (but that was more likely to be the chickenpox). “No…” her voice was smaller, meeker than before as she tried to steady it. “No, daddy you were wrong! You aren't listening… ‘Sirlock’ loves you and you let him go… no….” She kept repeating that as John guided her back to the pillow and Molly tucked her in.

Sherlock didn't seem very fond of Rosie’s repetition, evidenced by the edge in his posture as he suddenly bolted up from his chair. “I'm leaving now.” he announced, dry but holding some resentment as he did.

John looked aghast. “You’ve got to be kidding me, you cannot be mad at me too _over some damn story_!” His voice was hushed but stern, leaning past his daughter to be heard.

“Don't be stupid.” Sherlock snapped back.

“ _Sherlock!_ What is your problem? It's a bloody fairytale, it's not like we're actually together-” **or married** he was about to add before feel the room grow uncomfortably silent. John felt the eyes of everyone in the room looking away.

Except for Sherlock - who met his gaze like always.

He looked at him, ice in his gaze but it wasn't alone. John could see, hiding underneath the frost and tucked away in the back corner of his eye, a desperate plea. It wasn't obvious at a glance, you had to be looking for it. John hadn't realised he had been looking that intently into the sectoral eyes of Sherlock Holmes until he spotted it. “John, drop it…. _Please.”_

If Molly or Mrs Hudson heard, they had the decency to pretend otherwise. Instead fussing about with Rosie’s blankets and collecting the dishes from the earlier snack. Rosie, on the other hand, despite feeling quite warm once more had heard something else. Footsteps approaching, lingering in the hall and presumably looking into the open door of Sherlock’s bedroom to what currently looked like Victoria Station during the morning commute.

Her senses were proved correct; for when Sherlock turned to leave his room he was frozen in place as the bundled figure of Greg Lestrade hesitantly looked into the room. “Your door was left open and I wanted to make sure you were all alright… what's going on?” his hasty explanation was followed by a curious glance into the room.

John realised how ridiculous this all looked. Their chairs sitting in Sherlock's room as John and Rosie were tucked into the man’s bed. Greg didn't even know about the ridiculous story - _Oh lord_ , he would never hear the end of it if he did.

“Molly is telling us a story.” Mrs Hudson piped up, not really explaining anything.

Greg cocked an eyebrow, “And you had to all hide in here to hear it because…?”

Molly flushed a bit, the whole thing feeling silly, “I came to visit Rosie who has been here while sick and I started to tell her a story and slowly everyone came to join…” She explained, holding up the book in her hand.

“Oh yeah, I heard you were under the weather.” Greg cast the patient a softer glance, taking on the tone of the father who had seen this all before. “How are you holding up?”

Rosie, who still hadn't yet fully tempered from her anger, pouted in a rather Sherlockian fashion answering, “I hate being sick… I got daddy sick too.”

“Aye, she did…” John sighed, tugging at his shirt collar to reveal the increasing number of red spots appearing on his skin.

Lestrade smirked, “Ah, that explains it…” he answered with slight amusement, looking between him and Sherlock as if they were two children caught sneaking a peek at their Christmas presents. “I was wondering where you two buggered off to. You both vanished from the Crime Scene… not that it's uncommon but what was uncommon was the text that John sends to let me know you're both still alive never arrived.”

“Shit… sorry Greg…”

“...Daddy! No swearing!”

“...I told Sherlock to text you. Yes, Rosie sorry…”

Sherlock’s face had thawed a bit, the tension from before having been diffused. “Well, in my defense I was busy playing Doctor… and Pirate, it seems.” John gave him a pointed look at that, as he pretended not to notice.

“Pirate?” Lestrade looked quizzically, wondering if this would be a time he'd get an explanation or if he would be left in the dark as he often was when it came to the strange doings at 221B.

Molly gave him a sympathetic grin, waving the book in the air once more. “It's a modified retelling… one that I think we are taking a break from right now.”

“Yes, the poor thing got herself worked up over it.” Mrs Hudson tutted in agreement, “Not good for her fever, if you ask me.”

“And speaking of which, is it okay for you to be in infection central?” John cut in, “As it turns out, age is not a factor with chickenpox… at least not a good one anyway.”

“No worries mate, I have kids. I was one myself. I'm good.” he assured.

Rosie turned her head back to Molly. “I don't want the story to be over. _Please_ … Uncle Greg wants to hear it too, don't you?” Round blue eyes blinked with a pout up at Lestrade with the hope for support.

Molly looked uncertain, an expression shared by the others as Greg paused. “I'm not sure if that's a good idea,” he began hesitantly, “not if it’s going to upset you.”

“It won’t. I promise.” Rosie countered, looking back at her dad with pleading look. “Look. I’ll be good. I swear. Molly? Please?”

She knew she should insist Rosie rest, especially as the story was seeming to upset more than just little Watson. Molly looked to John, searching for a sign of what she should say. However, he was looking rather wrung out now himself. Not much up for another fight as he rubbed his chin for a second before answering in a defeated tone. “If it’s alright with you, fine.”

There was no denying the puppy dog eyes of Rosie Watson, everyone in the room knew it. In resignation, she glanced around the room again. “Where is he going to sit? Greg, if he is joining us.”

“Joining?” Greg hadn’t anticipated that the offer was going to be officially extended **nor** accepted on his behalf.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice was a deep whisper in Lestrade’s ear, “after all Rosie has been alone in bed for the last few days and has been missing everyone.” His voice had an edge to it, attempting to convey to Lestrade meaning without having to divulge any further. “He can have my chair…”

“Oh no you don't!” This time, John cut through. “You are going to stay, right Rosie?”

Rosie nodded with a frown that Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to fight with today. If he argued it, then the tension from before would surely follow and the last he needed was more witnesses to such things. For now, he would play nice. “Sit with us!”

His lips parted as if to object before the older Watson beat him to it. “Don’t be silly, Sherlock. It’s _your_ bed. Nobody is going to banish you to the floor. There’s room at the end with Molly.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

* * *

The sounds of cheer and laughter faded as the horn salute began cascading in the air, drawing the attention of the onlooking crowd to the parapets where King James II now stood in all his regal glory. He didn’t need to see him to know it was true. _Into battle_ , John thought to himself as a hush lulled over the crowd.

Out on the parapets, King James II held a hand out to the crowds below, lowering it once he had the focus of onlookers. “My father's final words were: _love her as I loved her, and there will be joy_. Words I swear to the heavens to hold close as we embark on this new chapter in our nation’s proud history. A chapter that I now share with a man of great heart and leadership. My people, I present to you: Royal Consort Prince Jonathan!”

The gates into the square opened, and Prince once more walked out of the castle confines and among the people once more. Like before, there were cheers and smiles. People bowing and others applauding. In the distance, he could even see Billy Wiggins in the distance with a bright smile as he stood the bars of a gate to see over the heads of others. The colours of Florin waved and up above from the parapets he could see King James II giving him the slightest beam of pride. This was something he did right. He messed up his own life; he had hurt the man he loved and he did not feel a thing for his husband - but he could this. He could be what the people needed him to be with their guidance. For the first time since the bottom of the valley, John felt he could breathe again.

Then she forced her way through the throng.

A small elderly woman, a face that would have been kind if it wasn’t screwed up in disgust and fury. Ginger and white strands of hair peeked out from her hood, her body draped in a black cloak that gave her the appearance of death itself. Her finger outstretched accusingly towards the Prince himself. Lip quivering in anger. She was shouting something that stunned the people around her into silence. It took John a moment to understand her before the sharp voice cut a silence in the square.

 

_She was booing._

 

From the balcony above, the King gestured for his guards to move. Quickly they bustled out after the Prince and stood around him in a defensive measures. It felt a bit needless, as he watched two storm over to the woman to carry her away before John shouted. “Wait! Bring her to me!” He pushed himself out from the barricade of steel that surrounded him to face the woman as she was brought to his feet.

“Do I know you, madam?” he asked politely, his face scrunching as she looked familiar. Not in regular way, but in the way one would recognise a face in a dream but upon waking forget them.  

The woman gave him a sneer as she shook her head.

“Then why do you do this? Why do you choose to insult me on this day?”

“Because John Watson, you are not worthy of my cheers!” The old woman was small but her words held the bite of a younger woman and a strength well concealed. She made a motion to stand but the guards pushed her back down. John shouted in offense to the brutish nature of the kingsmen. He opened his mouth to apologise but the woman’s fury had peaked once more, her voice now shouting to the crowds around them. “You had love in your hands and you gave it up for gold!”

“I had given my word! I am a man of honour!” John countered.

“Boo! You had given it once before, yet you had no qualms about breaking that!”

John was bewildered. “I thought he was dead! That’s not fair.”

The old woman was unsympathetic, tutting as she shook her head in disgust. “You reptile! It is true what I tell you. There was love alongside her in the Fire Swamp and he dropped it from his fingers like garbage, and that is what he is, the Prince of Garbage! BOO!”

John’s voice lowered to a sharp warning tone. “They would have killed Sherlock if I hadn’t done it!”

“Your true love lives! And you marry another. True Love saved her in the fire swamp, and she treated it             like garbage. And that's what she is, the queen of refuse. So bow down to her if you want, bow to her.        Bow to the prince of slime, the prince of filth, the prince of putrescence! I am old and life means nothing to me, so I am the only person in all this crowd to dare to tell truth, and truth says bow to the Prince of Feculence if you want to, but not I! BOO! BOO!”

John took a step back, the woman began crawling towards him with furious vengeance in her eye. “Restrain her! Take her away!” It was no use, the woman fought the guards. Growing closer as her face turned dark and eyes unfathomable. Looking much like the grim figure of doom as a repeated chorus fell from her lips as she gained on him. “BOO! BOO! YOU REPTILE. HOW COULD YOU JOHN? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! BOO! BOO!”

John couldn’t escape. He couldn’t hide. Everyone had begun to turn with her. Everyone looked at him accusatory. The praise was gone. The kingdom didn’t want him to serve for them - they wanted his head.

“BOO! BOO! BOO!”

* * *

Sweat poured down his brow as John jumped from his bed with a start. Hand resting over his heart, feeling it thunder in his chest. Gasping as the echoes of the sound died and faded back into his mind.

It had all just been a dream. One of the many that had begun to plague him ever since his return to the Castle.

_Deep breaths, John._ It was all just a dream. The king still lived, but John's nightmares were growing           steadily worse.  He couldn’t take it anymore. This was wrong. His hand rested upon the brooch. He had made an vow once with this trinket; the most important one in his life. It was a vow John was tired of breaking. Once his breath was steadied, John pulled on his dressing robes and demanded to be taken to the Prince’s study - he knew that the man would still be awake at this hour.

It was time to come clean.

* * *

Molly cast an eye upward, the look of relief was evident on Rosie’s face and followed by complacency once more as she once more allowed herself to be tucked close to her father. Clearly the feelings of betrayal had passed.

What she didn’t see was that John was giving Sherlock, whose face was downcast in a near guilt on the opposite end of the bed as him, a sympathetic glance. Legs outstretched so that his feet were by his pillow; John rested his hand on one of his ankles for a reassuring squeeze. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was reassuring, but the detective opposite him stiffened slightly at the sudden contact before relaxing.

* * *

Prince James watched as his betrothed paced in front of his desk; Count Charles sitting at a small table by the window, doing his best display of _not paying attention_ as the two spoke. He had to admit, he hadn’t expected this from John _just yet_. It was clear from the moment they had rode off from the Fire Swamp that this unpleasantness would come back to bother them - however, he had expected it to crop up at the last chance. It felt more in John’s nature to fight it till the last moment.

How surprising the man was becoming.

“...it comes down to this, I made a mistake when I took your proposal. Make no mistake, the honour and gracious I felt and feel still for your grace but the truth was that I lied. I was not free to marry you because I was to be married to another. The man I love, and if you decide that you don’t care and I _must_ marry you then I assure you there will be no wedding by my own means.” John’s voice took a dark edge, the morbid meaning clear in the eyes of all witnesses.

The Prince thought carefully for a moment; before visibly reaching a conclusion. “There is no need for such theatrics; if this is how you truly feel then consider our wedding off. After all, John, I have no desire to cause you direct harm.” John’s mouth hung open, surprise by the graceful manner in which the Prince was taking this. He remembered the resoluteness of the proposal, and the accompanying threat. _Perhaps it had been just a jest after all._ Prince John rose from his chair, turning towards where the Count sat and garnered his attention. “My friend, you returned this lad to his ship, correct?”

The Count looked up, lowering his quill with deliberant delay before answering. “Of course, my lord.”

Prince James held his arms out in accepted defeat, “Then we shall have to summon him… however, forgive me if this sounds cruel but are you certain that he still wants you, sir?” John’s face flashed with anger at the very thought before pausing as he thought. The Prince continued. “I only mean to say, it wasn’t he who left you at the Fire Swamp? He looked rather put out by the whole affair. Would you say that your love is a man of pride?”

“Of course.”

“Well consider: Here he is, off sailing somewhere with the Dread Pirate Roberts; having had to survive the emotional scars you dealt him. What if he wants now to remain single? Or, worse, what if he has found another?”

Words failed John as the harsh reality of the Prince’s words washed over him. He doubted the last one; that wasn’t Sherlock - but the former. He thought back to the man he had first met, before he had let John into his world. Stubborn, crass, arrogant and cold. How easy would it be for Sherlock to slip back into old and dangerous habits after everything he did for John being for naught?

The Prince placed a hand on John’s shoulder, seeming to read the air around him. In a rare moment of sympathy and concern, he offered him a small smile. “Don’t look so despondent, how about this? You will write four copies of a letter. We will send one upon each of my four fastest ships, sailing in each direction to find him. If this pirate wants you, then bless you both.” Prince James’ hand moved from his shoulder to tilt John’s face upward - leveling his eye with his. “If not, will you at least consider myself a reasonable alternative to suicide?”

He cleared his throat, not trusting his voice to not betray his emotions. “Right, yes… that sounds… that’s fine. Thank you. I’m tired now though, by your leave your highness - goodnight.”

The Count watched as John left the room with a soldier’s directness, listening as his footsteps faded down the hall and fall into silence. He cast an eye to the Prince. “I certainly see his appeal,” he mused as he rose from his table and joined the Prince at his desk. “A tad simple, but there is an honour and bravery to him that is admirable. No wonder the people love him.”

Prince James smirked, but his face was cold and unattached. “Quite. You know, when I hired Hope and his troupe to kill him after allowing the kingdom to fall in love with him - I thought that was clever. However, imagine how much more _moving_ it will be when I strangle him on our wedding night. Once Gilder is blamed, everyone will be so distraught they will demand we go to war.” It was true, Prince Jonathan’s popularity had skyrocketed after his kidnapping. The people painting him the tragic hero and the fact that _James_ had been his hero - well that had only boosted his own favour with the people. When The Man in Black had interfered, it had taken every ounce of self control Prince James had to not drop his facade and go insane with rage. Even now, he felt his game altered slightly. Mistaking when John’s grief would take him - that was normally child’s play. Yet, he still had the upper hand and that prompted his mood to begin to take a more positive turn.

“You truly are a visionary, my lord.” Count Charles smirked, his eyes looking from the Prince to the rising sun. The interruption from John having taken a fair bit of time that he was anxious to recover. “Shall you be accompanying to the Zoo today, sire? Sherlock has regained full strength and I was planning to start testing today.”

A sigh of genuine disappointment fell from the lips of the Prince; “Oh Charles, you know how much I _love_ to watch you work, but I have our country’s 500th anniversary to coordinate, my wedding to plan, my husband to murder and Guilder to blame for it - I’m swamped.”

A tut of condolence came from the Count, giving his companion a pat on the shoulder. “Get some rest your highness, after all if you don’t got your health, you haven’t got anything.”

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes had begun to adjust to his dark and murky surroundings.  The odd man of which he still did not know the name of, came a few times a day. His wounds were cleaned and bandaged; the man assisted with a mostly liquid based feeding and of course in providing him with water. Hushed to slow down as he ate, as it would do him no good to choke while stuck on his back. Sherlock was able to manage small offerings of information from the man; but most of what he had learned came from straining his senses.

 

_Nose_ : Sherlock could smell rotting flesh. The place reeked of death; based on what was in store for himself that didn’t seem too surprising. This ‘Zoo’ must have seen countless loss of life; not all human but animal too.

_Ears:_ That was what told him about the animals. Human screams mingled with animalistic shrieks that at first it had been near impossible to discern them without proper focus. Animals of various habitats and beastial nature. It was the echo of these shouts that gave him an idea of how large and expensive this place was.

_Touch:_ A place this large and expensive, needed a lot of space. He could distinguish through sound alone that there were many floors to this place. Six if he had to guess, but he couldn’t be certain without further data. No building like this could be spotted on the surface of Florin, Sherlock would have noticed. Anyone with eyes would have noticed a mysterious six plus floored tower in the middle of the countryside.  The cool damp nature of this place left only one solution - he was underground.

_Eyes_ : Limited, admittedly, but further proof to the theory was what he could see was lacking in any form of natural light. Even dungeons often taunted their prisoners with sunlight to prevent madness when available. If they wanted him in peak condition, they wouldn’t want him going mad in the dark if they could help it. That was why there were a few torches in the room, offering small but acceptable light for his mind.

_Taste:_ Again, limited. The air tasted stale, the most he could say was for the dismal cooking skills of the odd man, which didn’t offer him much information that was prudent to his situation. His throat, however, was dry. Scratchy to the point where words were hard to form. He needed water, more than in short bursts.

 

This was how he kept himself from succumbing. His mind, keeping it running and at its best. Sharpening it like a knife so he would be ready when he needed to strike. How he was going to do so was still a mystery - but development came as he heard footsteps approach his room. There was the familiar tread of the oddman, but it was accompanied by another.

_The Six-Fingered Man_ \- Count Charles came into view behind the odd man, he looked over Sherlock with the kind expression a country doctor would hold for his patient. “Good morning, did you sleep well? Did you even know it was morning?” he asked curiously to Sherlock. “Culverton, fetch me the logbook - today’s the day.

Sherlock watched as the odd man, Culverton it seemed, pulled his hungry beady eyes away from himself and obeyed the Count’s request. Count Charles waltzed over towards the table that Sherlock was strapped down to. He gazed at him, his eyes devouring him in a way that made the younger man feel greatly exposed. “Beautiful, isn’t it? The machine?” His eyes never left Sherlock. “Took me half a lifetime to invent it. I'm sure you've discovered my deep and abiding interest in pain. At present, I'm writing the definitive work on the subject, so I want you to be totally honest with me on how The Machine makes you feel.”

His fists clenched, suddenly feeling a passing discomfort at his lack of modesty. Count Charles was about to torture him, that had been expressed when he first awoke, but he was speaking to him in the tone one would to a lover. Yet the sentiment didn’t reach his frosted eyes that had looked down upon Sherlock’s fists. The Count crouched down by his side, his hands ungloved for a rare moment as they reached for Sherlock’s. Forcibly clenching his fist, lifting his hand up slightly with his left as his right lightly caressed them. “Oh, I covet your hands, Mr Holmes; though since you’re still alive, I suppose you get to keep them for now. Look at them… a musician’s hand. An artist’s… or a woman’s….”  Charles clasped it possessively as he leaned over, his face hovering just over Sherlock. “Apologies for the dampness of my touch, you’ll get used to it. Now, as for today - since this is our first try, we are going to use the lowest setting.” Charles pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheek before pulling away, giving a nod to his assistant. His stomach churned, his skin burning as if he had been struck instead of pecked. All psychosomatic; he knew but no more pleasant for it.

Culverton pulled a lever on the machine, a dial resting at a large number one on a scale to fifty. Count Charles did not look as the sound of water began to flood his senses but Culverton did. His beady eyes hungry - pleasured as the suction cups began to twitch. That was Sherlock’s last coherent thought before pain; pain he had never experienced before at this intensity streamed from every suction cup and consumed his whole body. His body wanted to thrash, it might have been already but his screams were concealed. Culverton watched him, like a cat playing with it’s prey before devouring it whole. The Count’s back at had turned to him, listening but not watching. As if turning his back to it absolved him of the crime he was committing. The Count had already been privy to Sherlock’s most painful moment - he had bare witnessed to it in the Fire Swamp. Yet he would not give the odd man the satisfaction of screaming. Grunts, pained breaths, those he could not control.

When Sherlock felt he could no longer bare it, he heard salvation come in the form of Count Charles’ voice. Sitting in his chair, off to the side of the events he ordered Culverton to stop the machine. “As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old. Well, really that's all this is except that instead of sucking water, I'm sucking life. I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five, but I really don't know what that would do to you, so let's just start with what we have.” He could feel the Count’s eyes on him, but he could no longer see him. Somehow, that was still better than having hovering over him. “Tell me, how was that? Please remember, I am a mad of science and this is for posterity - complete honesty, in your own time. How did that feel?”

_Fine_. He thought to himself, but all he could form was a strangled sound before falling silent.

“Fascinating.” Count Charles mused, his eyes never leaving the body of Sherlock Holmes. Oh, he was going to greatly enjoy taking this specimen apart. Bit by bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ancient Booer was meant to be Mrs. Hudson. I don't know if that came across however. Let me know in the comments.  
> And yes, that is the official name of that character. It's crazy, right?


	12. Chapter Eleven: The Brute Squad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of this chapter is filling in a missing part from both the film & the movie; explaining how on earth Fezzik knew that The Count was the Six Fingered Man and that they needed to find The Man In Black. An event which was a long standing plot hole in the story. Perhaps that was why this chapter took over a goddamn year to get out. Yikes.

_"Your Highness," Yellin said. He was small, but crafty, with darting eyes and slippery hands._

**Prince Humperdinck came out from behind his desk. He moved close to Yellin and looked carefully around before saying, softly, "I have heard, from unimpeachable sources, that many men of Guilder have, of late, begun to infiltrate our Thieves Quarter. They are disguised as Florinese, and I am worried."**

_"I have heard nothing of such a thing," Yellin said._

**"A prince has spies everywhere."**

  

> **_**The Princess Bride,**_** William Golding; **_Part Six: The Festivities_**
> 
>  

* * *

 

Lestrade couldn't remember the last time he has been bested. It had to have been back when he was much younger; learning how to fight in the wrestling pits around Europe. When he had started fighting, it had been for the fortune of others. The audience had viewed a boy of his might and strength a monster, booing him and throwing things at him as he won match after match. _It's not fair_ ! They had cried, _how is a man meant to tackle a beast?!_ Uncaring for the fact that Lestrade had been small  & frightened the entire time; only trying to earn his keep as he had no family to call his own.

People hated him but he only wanted to please. It was his idea as an older boy to begin evening the odds. Groups and gangs against one lad; it seemed less monstrous. Suddenly he was the underdog and people loved him. For a few years, he had a good thing going until his “agent”, the man who had picked him off the streets as a youth, died during a particularly nasty winter. Lestrade had tried to manage on his own, but he had no mind for the business side of things. In truth, he had never found much joy in the fight - it was a means to an end, but suddenly he was in his twenties, alone and had no other means at his disposal. What was he to do? He took odd jobs, labour, before his training sent benefactors of another nature to him. Ones who heard of his strength and fighting days, who wanted to play roughly with others. He never lost. Not once.  Even if he had wished to, losing wasn't an option for a man like him. People would always have assumptions formed, nobody wanted to see the soul underneath.

 

He was in Greenland, a place where you go to disappear and wait out your days doing whatever you can to keep going. Live as peaceful an existence as possible, a concept which here meant alone and scraping by. Even in Greenland, where the company was already extremely limited to begin with, Lestrade wasn’t exactly viewed a good company. Something that came to the benefit of the very first visitor the Brute had ever received in his life.

Jefferson Hope, a small man with big ideas and even bigger plans. Lestrade could remember still how he awkwardly shuffled around the kitchen to make tea in his small shack that he was much too large for; desperate for the company, even if it came from a stranger with beady and unnerving eyes.  For the first time in his life, Gregory Lestrade felt small. Jefferson went on to explain how he had seen him fight once (in what would eventually become Germany), winning against a gang of seven much older & more experienced fighters before doing something Lestrade had never heard before in his life: praise!

Finally, someone had appreciated his efforts and saw his gifts as a blessing, not something to fear. Hope played him, saying everything he needed so desperately to hear before offering him not just a job, but a promise of being in company of people who appreciated him. People who didn't call him freak or booed. Lestrade ate it up and by months end, he was sailing away with Hope to France where the rest of their trio awaited.  It hadn’t taken long for him to realise the attempted duplicity on the part of Hope who, once he had Lestrade under his thumb, took no pains to attempt hiding his cruel and dominating personality. Hope took great joys out of screeching at him and his co-worker, Irene Adler. Lording over them as the self-proclaimed mastermind, barking orders which sometimes made no sense whatsoever - yet almost always worked out in the end.

However, Lestrade would still claim that Hope had only _attempted_ to deceive him. For while Hope proved to be the opposite of his initial claims, reminding him very much of his old managers - it was in Irene that Lestrade had found everything he was promised. A loyal friend, she held no fear of him. She could handle herself, but was always appreciative of his skills when they were in deep waters. The two had worked as a great team, and Hope knew their pressure points. Irene needed the job, she needed the ability to travel and cross paths with all types. She was looking for something and needed the coin and opportunity  that Hope provided. Whereas, Lestrade’s fears of loneliness and being in bad company were what kept him in line.

 

So when Lestrade awoke in the rocky terrain of Guilder, his body aching painfully and his mind foggy on what happened, the first clear thought had been what it always was: _Find Hope, if you can’t then go back to start._  He knew where they were meant to go, so Lestrade followed the path that had been drilled into their minds before taking the job. Anxious over the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he had been on his own like this, only to find his trail come to an abrupt stop at a picnic scene. Hope laid  dead at his feet. His last laugh etched hauntingly onto his face. No sign of injury, just a lack of life. First Irene, and now Jefferson. For the first time since Greenland, Gregory was alone and it was unnerving.

* * *

Florin Castle hadn’t seen this much excitement in years. If Prince James was to think back to the last time the servants and court had been in this much of an erratic bustle; it would likely have been his father’s marriage to his stepmother Janine, the Queen. An event which had occurred in his thirteenth year, but it was his thirty fifth now and this time all the chaos was surrounding himself. If the prince was honest with himself, there was something delightfully addicting about that fact. Of course, one couldn’t ignore the fact that the madness had increased expediently once the word of his betrothed’s tragic fate of attempted murder and kidnapping; his dearly beloved, their future king Prince James saving him from the clutches of bandits on the shores of Guilder. Tensions brewing between the nations once more as the countdown to Florin’s anniversary approached. The people loved their prince, and by extension, they loved their hero heir for saving him.

So when Prince James had received his reports at the breakfast table, before his fiancé joined them, and read aloud the report to his servants’ fretful ears that the shadowy league determined to remove Prince John’s head from his neck were loitering with new men in their border; the prince did everything he could to refrain from an amused grin as a maid gasped in horror and dropped her tray. Earning her a harsh scolding from a butler in hushed tones before banishing her from the room.  Not before given the strict order from the Prince himself, mind you, to keep what she heard to her chest.

So naturally, half the castle was buzzing with the news by noon.

 

Prince James languished uninterested in all his plans, looking the part of the concerned husband-to-be, before looking up with perked interest by a knock at his door. The figure slender but obedient figure of Chief Enforcer Dimmock stood erect and not at all as desperate for approval as James knew him to be. An arm motioning for him to come join him, the picture of serious concern. Without hesitating, Dimmock took large strides over to the desk where His Highness sat and gave a gracious bow.

“Sire…” the enforcer spoke respectfully, head tilting back up to see the Prince motion for him to be at ease.

He spoke in hushed tones. “Dimmock, you have served your country, my father and my extension, myself nobly for many a year… and at this time of crisis, I can think of no one else I can trust more with this task.” Prince James’ voice was flowery with pretension and honour, not failing to notice at all how the man lapped it all up like one of his stepmother’s disgusting dogs. Pitiful really, ordinary people were so needy and simple.  However, none of this shone on his royal visage; beckoning for him to come to his side in a desperate plea. “I have heard word that killers from Guilder have infiltrated the woods, hiding among the other thieves and ruffians we normally are too busy to deal with… unfinished business involving my dear fiancé.”

Dimmock’s eyes grew wide, a hand combing ungracefully through his hair as he processed the news. “Sire! Forgive my questioning, is just that I haven’t heard any news of the sort from my spy network. We’ve been paying close attention to the whispers since his grace was kidnapped. Are you certain that this isn’t a poor spirited joke meant to cause you strife?”  

To his credit, the man only stumbled a bit over his words, at the mere thought of questioning a claim from his highness. Prince James would have respected such an action any other time. Well, at least a little bit. At present, the Prince’s eyes narrowed slightly, “Do you doubt the validity of your Prince’s word, Dimmock? I assure you that as Crown Prince, I would be privy to a great deal more information that you and your spy network would. I hope my faith hasn’t been misguided in entrusting you…”

At this, The Enforcer visibly retreated. Recognising the potential fatality to his words. “Of course not, sire. Forgive me...”

James’ lips parted to speak, but whatever words he intended to say were stripped from him by a second knock at the door. The sight prompted Dimmock to rise to his feet respectfully and bow towards Prince Jonathan, who stood in the doorway with an anxious sort of look. Seeing the nervous face of the normally so stoic and brave prince put to rest any lingering doubts in Dimmock’s mind. It would take more than the whispers of a few kitchen maids to shake that exterior.  

“My Prince, forgive my intrusion. I was unaware you were in a meeting at present.” John’s head motioned slightly in acknowledgment of Dimmock. “I promise to be brief.”

“It’s no intrusion at all, what troubles you?”

He stood rigid in his stance, the perfect vision of a soldier and leader, but lost in his eyes was an unsettled fear that could not be missed by either man. “I merely wonder if any word from your ships had come in.”

A kind smile; one that had Dimmock not been present for, he mightn’t have believed it himself; crossed the face of Prince James. Kind, but had the man been brave enough to look closer, perhaps he might have noticed how it hollow beneath the surface. A smile that was less kind and more unnatural the longer one faced it. However, Dimmock was not such a bold man; and Prince Jonathan stood too far and his mind too distracted, to notice. “ Too soon, love. Patience.”

John did not return the endearment, instead giving a stiff nod before stating matter of factually, “He will come.”

“Of course.” Prince James agreed, watching unshaken as his betrothed turned heel and left his study. Waiting for the door to click shut before all pleasantries fell from his face, turning harshly towards the Chief. “He will _not_ be murdered!  I demand that the thieves forest be cleared out by my wedding! That is an order, chief.”

“But your highness, this task is too grand for such a short period of time. Some of the inhabitants will be quarrelsome at the prospect of being disturbed and are sure to kick up a fuss. I do not think my men as they are will be enough to clear them out in tim-”

“THEN FORM A BRUTE SQUAD!” Prince James’ pretense of rational cracked, a flicker of electricity crackled in his eyes at such a violent turn that Dimmock took a step back in self-defense. “I have made my demands, now see to them. Clear that forest by my wedding!”

Dimmock’s gait became solemn, head lowering humbly at his lord’s words. “I’ll see to it, my Prince. Alas, it won’t be easy however.”

“Try ruling the world sometime.”

* * *

Lestrade found that he wasn’t fond of being on his own rather quickly. It took some effort, but the brute had managed to secure passage on a trade ship into Florin in exchange for assisting with the delivery of the merchant’s goods for the royal wedding. Despite the fact that Hope had been so adamant about killing the little prince, Lestrade couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief at the news that John had found his way home safely. He had liked the guy, for as much as one could get to know the man they were contracted to kill. Not many of the crewmen would interact with him, other than to bark orders.

He was used to orders being shouted at him, and insults being berated upon him ceaselessly from Hope. Yet, Irene had always been there with a kind smile and clever quip to make it feel okay. However, Irene was not aboard the merchant ship. Cor, Gregory didn’t even know if Irene was still alive. The Man in Black had been steadfast in his quest, a level of focus that almost reminded him of Hope. Almost. He’d been in a great rush to reach the Prince before his throat was slit; yet, he had left him alive. The Man in Black could have killed him, logically he should have. Yet he had refrained. Shown him mercy, even engaged in pleasant conversation as they beat each other. It was the small details that really counted. If Gregory was still alive, perhaps Irene was too. Lord, it was all the giant could hope for. Nothing else was left.

 

It had been when Lestrade was carrying the deliveries that he had first spied him. A weaselly looking man with rounded spectacles in regal cloth. Looking much more important than everyone else around him. He was barking an order to a gathering of workers, preparations for the wedding. In truth, Lestrade had almost missed it. Would have if his hands hadn’t been motioning directions; but once he saw it, there was nothing else Gregory could see. Although adorned in black leather gloves, ones that undoubtedly cost most than the Brute had ever accumulated in a grand life total, Gregory Lestrade could see six fingers on the right hand.

**_Irene!_ **

Dropping the crates in hand, he moved closer. Listening to the Six-Fingered Man’s speech, upon approach realising that he wasn’t speaking to the crowd per say, but rather a scrawny nervous but proud fella in the royal crest. Another important looking guy, one who seemed to be the leader of the rabble. The Six-Fingered Man gave a slight brush off before marching back into the castle, Lestrade was tempted to march after him right then and there. Crush him for the Woman herself, in her honour. Yet the Second Man had called for attention in a voice that sounded much bigger than his body looked.

“Alright you lot, you heard Count Magnussen. The Thieves Forest is spilling out with criminals and with everything going on, orders are coming directly from the crown for us to take care of em’. You’ll be granted barracks space for the time you serve as well as two meals a day. You’ll get your gear at dawn. Try not to get yourself killed, or you’ll be answerin’ to me. Understood?”

The Barracks. That was apart of the castle. Fortune perhaps was finally smiling upon Lestrade. If the castle held the Six-Fingered Man, then that was where Madame Adler would surely show up if she still breathed. All Gregory had to do was wait it out and keep his eyes open.

An unsynchronised chorus of _yes chief_ rippled through the throng. Nobody really noticing that a newcomer had joined their ranks. Nobody really caring as long as they got their dues.

 

The good thing about being on a Brute Squad, was that as a Brute you fit right in. Lestrade could still boast being the biggest and the strongest of them, but here that earned him favour and respect.  Maybe the brute squad was where he belonged all this time? A few of the lads had sweet talked a scullery maid into slipping them some ale, so now a few sat around fire outside the barracks in song together. Passing the stolen liquor around.  

It was hard not to think of Adler, who had always loved a good song and whose voice was unquestionably more pleasing then these drunken arses. Yet, he had to admit it was the best he had felt since awaking on the field in Guilder alone. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. A great many of the oafs were losing their bearings now, Lestrade himself was not immune. In fact, he was hard pressed to pass out right there with the lot of them before bleary eyes caught sight of a figure in the distance.

_The Six-Fingered Man._

He was sneaking off into the night without procession, and while Gregory didn’t know much about Counts. He knew they were unlikely to take off in the night without even a watchman. This called for investigative pursuit. Staggering to his feet, only a slight grunt from his bench-mate as he rose,  Lestrade kept his distance as he wandered off after them. Within ten minutes, he could have kicked himself for not bringing a light with him as he feared finding his way back to be a challenge later on. Settling instead to look up at the night sky as Adler taught him from their boat, navigating with the stars.

 

After several minutes, the Count seemed to come to a stop in front of a patch of trees which appeared to hold no significance to Lestrade. Pausing in silence, in the dark before from the east, a small, disgusting looking fella wandered over to him.

“My lord, I wasn’t expecting you just yet.” the small man spoke, his voice speaking with the same kind of slime Hope’s had, but somehow it felt slimier.

“Yes, well… The Prince is preoccupied with his plans naturally. I ran out of use in that department for the time being, so I figured I’d utilize the free time I have left before we’re all occupied else wise.” there was an unmissable dark and knowing tone to his words that was echoed in the face of the other man.

 “It’s all good news for me, either way… i’ll have lots to do. Be it whatever you all round up tomorrow, a Guildian soldier… or that man you brought back. The pirate, whatever his name is.”

“Our special guest? The Dread Pirate Roberts… or rather, his _actual_ name…. Holmes. Yes, he has been quite impressive… but then again, after the chase he gave us all for the Prince, is that really surprising? A shame his family’ll never know their youngest lived.”  The Count smirked before walking into the dark thickness of the tree cluster. The shadows concealing where they went, but Lestrade was certain he could hear the sound of something outside of nature moving.

...coincidences were not something Lestrade believed in. No, no. He believed that everything happened for a reason. The Six-Fingered Man, Prince John… and, was he referring to the Man in Black? No. He could read the signs. Everything was coming together for a purpose. Perhaps it was influenced by the drink, but for the first time in awhile, Gregory Lestrade felt hopeful. Everything was coming to head, he just had to wait for Irene.

_Where was she?_

* * *

The wine had been swiped from a rube who had been to distracted by her pretty face and perfected Italian on her way into the woods. It had been hard to miss the tall tale versions of the events that had played out once The Man in Black had knocked her out on the cliff-side. She had been more surprised than anything, after being swallowed by blackness, to feel a dull ache on the back of her skull and a chill in her bones where she had been lain out on the rocky terrain all night.  The fact the cold alone hadn’t killed her was more of the miracle in itself.

A testament to her long developed resilient nature which had  been developed over the year out on her own, hunting The Six-Fingered Man across the globe. The roughest and most meager of conditions had become like a second home to her.  Even in the employment of Jefferson Hope, the luxury of comfort had been forsaken several time for the purpose of the job. Whenever luxury did befall them, it was only with arm twisting that prevented their leader from hoarding it for himself.  Most of the many moons spent in that band had been saved only by the companionship of Gregory Lestrade.

Perhaps he had been a tad simple in some areas, not to his own fault but due to his upbringing; but Irene knew that underneath that mass and common minded exterior was a brilliant man. Nobody could connect pieces together like he could, a skill which had saved them countless times. Irene was clever, but that cleverness was oft naught which landed her in trouble. Lestrade knew how to read the signs; survey the area. She hoped the man was alright.

Once she realised that she was not dead, Irene has chosen not to bound after her companions. Instead, with having no reason yet to believe anything had gone awry, she had followed the instruction. The same instruction which Hope gave them every time: should things go wrong, should we be parted, always go back to the beginning.  It was not until The Woman had reached the shores of Florin that news had begun to reach her ears. Word of the Prince, a daring rescue, a body, The Man in Black. The whispers varied. Details askew, making it hard to ascertain what was the truth. Still, she was alive. The Man in Black had an honour to him. He had been within his rights to kill her, but instead granted her life.  This was the comfort she took as she opened the bottle of wine, foregoing a glass and setting herself outside their hideout in the woods. Here she would wait.

Back at the beginning.

* * *

The shouts could be heard even miles off from the woods; the thieves were furious. Swords clashing, an occasional gunshot and the whinnying of horses. The Brute Squad had arrived at the first break of dawn, and the thieves in question were far from pleased by it. It was well past noon by now, the wedding was hours from now at sundown, but Dimmock was beginning to worry about finishing up in time.

The Enforcer anxiously walked over to his assistant, Moran. His jaw tight and stance rigid, “ Moran! How are we doing?”

Moran shrugged with a frustrated sigh, his lip split from an earlier fight. Swinging his rifle back over his shoulder.  “Yeah, we’re making decent headway now that we cleared the north quarter, but there is some woman giving us trouble in the south…”

Dimmock glowered in frustration, “Then don’t just stand here, go give her some trouble! I hardly see why one woman is slowing down our entire operation!”

The gunman smirked, reaching for a flask and taking a nice long gulp before facing his superior. Dimmock could tell that the ginger man thought he was amusing in some way. “Why don’t you come show the lads how it’s done then, chief… to help speed it along.” Moran finally responded, a mocking tone to his words. Not enough to call outright disrespect, but just enough to boil the blood of Dimmock just a bit.

The chief drew himself up higher, feeling suddenly vulnerable about his neck and it’s current placement on his shoulders. “Very well, take me to her. Move!”

  


Whomever the Chief was expecting, it was not what sat before him. At her feet sat several empty wine bottles, in her hands the finest cutlass Dimmock had ever seen waved about in the air fluidly. She was slouched against the front step of shabby hut, but there was still an unmissable elegance even as she slurred loudly to the Brute Squad that was already attempting to get close without being cut.

“I am waiting here, Hope. Jus’ like you said to. The plan was come back to the beginning, so I have come back. And I’ll wait here for you… at the beginning.”

Moran approached, parting the crowd for Dimmock but keeping distance enough from the blade, “ Ho there!”

The brunette woman sneered, “You can keep your _ho there_. Here is where I am, here is where I shall stay. I shall not be moved.”

Dimmock frowned, but Moran only housed a clever grin on his face, enjoying himself far too much for the Enforcer’s liking. “The Prince has given orders, madam!”

The brunette gave the chief an undignified gesture in response, “SO DID HOPE,” her tone forceful, “He said go back to the beginning. So I have come back to the beginning. I am not moving! I am staying until L… Hope… Till Hope comes back.”

Dimmock pushed Moran aside, casting his snickering face from view as he reached for his own blade. “I shall not ask again nicely, move or we shall force you too! Oi, you lot! Give me a hand, you useless clots!”  The Chief motioned towards the Brutes that stood by, eyeing the rather large one with grey hair in particular. “You leave me no choice!”

The brunette laughed as she bound to her feet, blade flashing and settling dangerously close to Dimmock’s throat. Instinctively, the swarm around her drew their weapons too. Even Moran lost a slight bit of the humour in his eye as his rifle cocked. Dimmock swallowed, The Woman having no desire to back down remained in their stalemate. The Chief looked desperately around him, trying to find a way out when he locked eyes with the largest of the brutes. Standing directly behind the swordswoman, motioning with his eyes to take her out from behind. The giant caught his eye, nodded as he took a step forward. “You haven’t been behaving very nice.” he grunted. The brunette’s eyes going wide at the sound and turning her head to see the man raise his club.

A wide smile on her lips was the last thing Dimmock saw before he was struck by a heavy blow.

* * *

  
The gunman had been smart and scampered off as soon as Dimmock fell. The others had followed suit one way or another. Irene Adler could hardly contain her relief at the sight of Gregory Lestrade coming to her aid. Giving the brute a giant, sloppy kiss on the cheek as he guided her inside with ease. A  Before she could say a word of joy, she was splashed in the face by the contents of the first cup he saw.

Irene scowled and cried out bitterly. “OH! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Soberin’ you up.” Lestrade answered simply, the hint of a grin on his cheeks as he did, “Pull yourself together, Adler. I’m going to need you at your best.”

“Why? What’s going on? Where’s Hope?”

Lestrade gave her a plotting grin, the face of a man proud to gift this knowledge and knew full well where it would lead them. “I found the Six-Fingered Man. He’s in the castle.”

Irene was still for a moment; unblinking, unbreathing, unmoving. Suddenly, reaching toward the half empty old tankard that sat neglected on the table and splashing her own face with it’s contents. “Tell me everything, and start from the beginning.”

Pulling up a chair, Lestrade filled Irene in with as much detail as possible. Recounting his travels from Guilder, his encounter with the Count and his secret in the woods. The Woman thought quietly to herself as her friend spoke, the cogs in her head turning. Gregory talked for about an hour or two, making sure he hadn’t missed a single detail.

Adler leaned back in her chair, finger to her chin as she processed it all. “So, the count is in the castle; the castle is guarded by… you said thirty men? How many do you think you could take?”

“In the amount of time we’d have, about ten.”

“Which leaves the other twenty to me, plus Count Magnussen… that’s… not an ideal balance.” She sighed, frustrated, “ _Merde_ … I cannot believe I am saying this, but if there was ever a time we needed that beady little man, it’s now. He was the planner. I have no gift for strategy. We need a strategist!”

“I know, but Hope is dead.”

“No… we don’t him… we need The Man in Black! Think, it’s perfect. He bested me for blade, you for strength, clearly he bested Hope for wits! If the Count has his captive somewhere, then we share a common enemy! _Mon ami,_ do you recall where you followed the devil to?”

Lestrade scrunched his face in thought, “I had a rough idea, but like I said it got too dark and I lost him.”

Irene was on her feet once more, her blade slung into it’s sheath for now. She could swear she could feel it buzzing as much as she was on this rush. Her dear Kate, her soul finally put to rest. It was within her grasp. “It’s as good a place to start as any, I know that these castle often hold a variety of secret tunnels and chambers. If there is one containing either, we’ll find it. I’ve waited years for this moment, Gregory. Mark my words, _chérie,_  there will be blood tonight!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I live. This chapter has been kicking my ass for literally a year, along with writing with a perspectives I am not super convinced I had a hold on. I don't fully love the blend of Lestrade and Fezzik here, but you know what... it's been one year. I needed to get past it and just let bygones be bygones. Let's hope it's smooth sailing from now on. 
> 
> French Translations:
> 
> Merde - Shit, Damn, etc  
> Mon Ami - My friend  
> Chérie - Sweetheart, Dear, etc


End file.
